


Rehabilitation

by the_mythologist



Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: 'character death', Angsty Times, Ann is violent and it is delightful, BDSM, Come on, Dom/Sub relationship (kind of), Drama, F/M, Heterosexuality, Humor, I really do like her best just not in this fic, I really like Shiho can you tell, Language, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Multi, PTSD, Romance, Ryuji was my other and true favorite, Sass, Sexy Times, Sojiro knows all, Yusuke is a human slinky, and Hot Old Man Iwai, and Kaoru Iwai, angry Akechi, because it's Akechi, but Futaba wins EVERYTHING, for real Ryuji, goddamn that gecko is smokin', infidelity (which is caught and addressed just about immediately), long suffering Makoto, low/nonexistent self-worth, pancakes are mentioned with startling regularity, spoilers for true ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-03-07 23:00:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13445220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_mythologist/pseuds/the_mythologist
Summary: Wherein it is discovered that Akechi was only mostly dead, and Igor has enough of not being paid rent. Akira decides he’s going to save grumpy, occasionally Amnesiac!Akechi, even if the process makes him realize he may be in need of some saving, himself.The rest of the team is less than enthusiastic about Akechi’s reappearance, but between the rehabilitation; shenanigans both romantic and otherwise; a fair amount of bondage and other questionable, yet delicious sexual decisions; a new persona, and a plot to win Morgana a human body, it all gets straightened out. Eventually.(Heh ‘straightened’ out.)





	1. Resurrection is a nifty trick

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while since I've tried my hand at persona fanfic, but I'm in this one for the long haul. Expect updates every 2-3 weeks until finished!

There was no real warning that Akira Kurusu’s life was about to change, once again, as drastically as it had two years ago when he’d entered into a contract with the short-lived master of the Velvet Room. It was just a normal day like any other. The morning was spent looking for apartments in the Tokyo area, after an even shorter time taking care of his laughably easy homework. There were a slow handful of hours manning the counter at the only bar in Kadoma that let a 19-year-old with an infamous criminal record (yet impeccable serving skills, due to his time at the legendary Crossroads bar) serve drinks. A long train ride back to his cramped apartment in Osaka, where his magical talking ‘cat’ Morgana waited to fill him in on all the TV he missed, all the while giving his opinions on the character development and plot lines of each individual show. A text from his girlfriend, Makoto Niijima, that signalled an imminent breakdown if her roommate, Haru Okumura, left plant seeds to clog up the shower drain again. 

All this was no more than ordinary, but only served to lead up to the point where his life diverged in one, fateful moment. He opened the door to his apartment, thinking of little more than what he’d have for dinner, and the path of his life diverged dramatically.

***

A quarter of the way across Japan in a high-rise apartment building in the heart of Tokyo, Makoto Niijima checked her cell phone. It wasn’t like Akira to make her wait, although she fully understood if he’d been caught up at work, or was studying diligently. Or, as was more often the case than they’d like to admit, sidetracked by one of Morgana’s hair-brained schemes centered around becoming human. 

But he had texted her on the train coming home from work, so unless Morgana had ambushed him the moment he walked through the door, (which was entirely possible, she would admit) there was no reason to make her wait _this_ long. Makoto sighed. The text itself was not the issue, she had just wanted a break from her studies. The subject matter was certainly nothing critical, even if Haru’s ability to get seeds _everywhere in the apartment_ was nigh magical, at this point. Come to think of it, Makoto was fairly sure she’d heard her calling out some of her old persona battle cries the other day . . .

She shook her head. No, no, Haru’s ability with plants couldn’t be connected to the now-unreachable Metaverse, could it? 

Shaking that fancy from her mind, Makoto turned her attention back to her paper on the flaws inherent in appeal cases for her criminal justice course, just as the pod princess herself let herself in the front door. After carefully folding her jacket and slipping her shoes off, Haru flounced over to the couch. Her hair was fluffier than usual. She had dressed nicely for her date at the museum, but from her expression of dissatisfaction, the outing had not gone well.

“Do we have any sake in the apartment?” Haru asked in her cultured, princess tone, and Makoto flinched. Yeah, she’d put money on the date not going well, at all.

“That bad?” She inquired delicately, wondering if mentioning Haru’s 8:30 AM class tomorrow morning was enough to head off the desire for getting hammered.

Haru turned to her with a scowl. “In the span of three hours, he managed to insult half the pieces in the exhibit, insinuate that I needed to straighten my hair to be beautiful, took a call from another girlfriend and pretended it was business, and touched my rear end uninvited three times.”

Makoto gaped before making one last attempt to steer Haru from the bottle. “It . . . could have been worse—”

“And in the car ride there and back, he refused to listen to anything other than Taylor Swift.”

Makoto’s head fell to the side. “Who’s Taylor Swift?”

Haru threw up her hands. “Hell if I know! Some American singer who sounds like she’s 12. The ride was interminable. Hence, I need sake. Rather badly. Right now.”

It was out of her hands. Haru _was_ 20 years old, as was she. As long as they drank responsibly, and in the safety of their shared apartment, it was probably ok. “Shelf above the fridge. We have some midori too, if you want something sweet.”

Haru nodded firmly. “Yes, I shall require all the liquor.”

As Haru flounced into the kitchen to prepare her drink(s), Makoto turned back to her paper. She finished four more sentences before Haru came back in, and after settling her drink down carefully on the coffee able, settled herself primly onto the sofa.

“May we talk?” Haru asked politely.

Makoto hid a smile at her civility. Her paper wasn’t due for several weeks yet, and she needed to research more of her sources before she could make more headway. Here was the break she’d been longing for, even if it came from an unexpected source.

“Of course,” she invited. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Boys,” Haru said immediately. “Tell me something good about Akira-kun, please. I need a success story to bolster my faith in romance.”

“Ahh . . .” Makoto trailed off, “Well, Akira is doing fine. So is Morgana, of course. He—Akira, I mean— graduated at the top of his class, but you already knew that . . .” 

“Mako-chan,” Haru said delicately, “Proud as I am of his accomplishments, that was not what I was referring to. Give me the goods, girl!”

“What . . . what _goods?”_

Haru’s tiny voice rose the way it did when she had called out _persona!_ in the Metaverse. “Tell me how your boyfriend is in bed, gosh darn it!”

Makoto entertained thoughts of faking a phone call from her sister. Barring that, slamming the cover of her laptop down and running very, very fast in the opposite direction of Haru. For a moment she prayed quite hard for a miracle. When none came, she sighed and admitted, “Um, it’s kind of been a while . . .”

The Okamura heir nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes, I know. He’s all the way in Osaka, and we’re in Tokyo. Soooo far away in a country with a well-developed public transportation system.”

“It’s not just that,” Makoto protested. “He had to finish his last year after months in juvie, and you know how hard it is to return to the real world after that. He didn’t want any of us getting tarnished with his reputation, not to mention all eyes were on him for almost a year because of his stint in juvie. Not to mention the attention the government still gives him as the leader of the Phantom Thieves. We had to stay apart, and without Futaba-chan’s creating secret chat groups, phone, and skype lines for us to stay in touch, he would have fallen off the grid entirely!”

Haru took a delicate sip from her drink before leaning forward. “I know all that, Mako-chan, and I’m not trying to make you feel bad or as if you aren’t getting any . . . even though you aren’t.” She took a large sip of what could be, knowing her, be pure alcohol. “Actually, if you were dating anyone _other_ than the ex-leader of the Phantom Thieves, I would tell you to dump his ass, right now.”

Makoto narrowed her eyes at her roommate. “Haru, why are we still talking about this?”

“Because I’m out of romance novels and the internet is acting up,” Haru admitted bluntly. “I need romance! Or something!”

That was quite enough. Makoto could not bring herself to reflect on the barren status of her love life, particularly when she had so little to remember in the first place. They had fallen together in the midst of a shadow war, bare days before Akechi had infiltrated them. There had not been much time to be together, and when the ‘ace detective’ was around, Akira had been understandably edgy and on his guard. None of that was conducive to love-making. 

“I’ll tell you more when you finish telling me about your date,” Makoto invited, craftily planning to get Haru so drunk her tale would never be told. 

“Oh, every part of it was awful,” Haru said, already a little lopsided from the drink. This was fitting, as the first one was inexplicably gone. “At least _those_ parts. But I did get to see one of Yusuke-kun’s pieces in person!”

“Oh, was it good?” Makoto asked with real interest. She was not a huge fan of art, not like Ann, but she did hope that he was doing well and out of his slump.

“It was a little weird,” Haru admitted. “Beautiful and scary at the same time. But wow, did it ever make me nostalgic for our days trawling Mementos!”

***

 

 

At that very moment, more than halfway across Japan, Yusuke Kitagawa was discreetly scanning the crowds as they flocked to admire his newest exhibit, _Lord of the Deep._ While it was impossible to fully explain the true subject of his most recent collection of works, the ancient god Yaldabaoth who had made their lives _so very difficult_ two years ago, he had done his best to translate the true meaning of their struggle onto canvas. By using light and shadow, color and shade, action and tranquility, he had communicated what he could understand of the evil scourge. In these paintings were his memories of their struggle against Yaldabaoth’s overwhelming power, and the euphoria of their victory over him. 

(If he had also used this medium to win a bet made with the childish Futaba about whether her persona, the Necronomicon’s shape was ungainly, he was only human. Judging by the barrage of angry-faced emoji texts he had received since pictures of the exhibit went viral, he could only assume she had seen, and what’s more, understood.)

Their bickering aside, Yusuke was grateful that _someone_ did. While his artwork had tantalized the nation after the fall of the Phantom Thieves, leaving him prosperous enough financially to eat whatever and whenever he liked, and secure enough in gallery space and inspiration for the immediate future, he was a little tired of the endless wave of uninformed individuals coming up to him and begging him to explain his inspiration. 

_It’s all right there,_ he wanted to tell them, even if it would uncover his actions as a Phantom Thief. _Mankind’s recent struggle against an ancient, unknowable might. Of victory over unimaginable odds. Your salvation, although you’ll never know, or understand it._

He couldn’t, of course. No matter the temptation, it would destroy lives other than his own. Still, perhaps it was time to take a break—go overseas for a little while, where no one knew him or his fame. 

_Perhaps I’ll find someone as intriguing as Ann,_ he thought, mildly uplifted . . . before thoughts of his quarter-Caucasian friend reminded him of how much he missed her. Perfect feminine specimen or not, she was his friend, and they hadn’t texted or talked on the phone in over a week. 

_She’s probably busy gallivanting around with Ryuji,_ he thought darkly. _They better not be dating when I get back to Tokyo . . ._

_***_

Ryuji’s loud and sudden sneeze tore Ann from her window shopping in Shibuya’s central street. “Jeez, buddy,” she said. “Do you always sneeze your brains out, or is this a special case?”

He rubbed his nose, looking a little disconcerted. “Do you ever have those sneezes that just come out of nowhere? Like, I didn’t even feel the urge and suddenly—bam! Sneeze.”

“You’re just special, Ryuji,” Ann said drily. “In more ways than one. I mean, you’re the one who wants to hang out with Shiho and I again. Most girls give up by the third outing, and girls are socially _tenacious._ Boys tend to just hide under rocks. _”_

For that was how their lives had gone throughout their final year of high school, and the months following graduation. Ryuji had tagged along with Ann (because he had no friends in Tokyo other than Mishima and those two gay guys in Shinjuku, the poor lamb) and where scores of girls had been unable to insert themselves into her and Shiho’s co-dependent friendship, Ryuji had done so without even trying. 

_Girls are weird,_ he had explained with a shrug when Ann had asked him why on Earth he always wanted to hang out with them. _I should probably get used to it now. Besides, I like her better than Mishima. Like, way better. He keeps talking about making a documentary, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want us actually_ in _it._

That was that. Shiho didn’t mind—she found his honest heart and blunt manners refreshing, and the fact that he’d once tried to inflict bodily harm against her rapist, Kamoshida, helped immensely—and so two became three, and for their last year of high school, she and Ryuji spent the vast majority of their time together, all the while laughing off rumors that they were dating.

(That Shiho was uninvolved was only because she attended a different high school, otherwise the rumor mill would have really churned out some interesting butter.)

“So I was thinking, the other day,” Ryuji said, apropos of nothing at all and indicating that he was tuning Ann out again, (the jerk,) “Who did you hate more, Akechi, or Shido?”

“Shido,” she answered automatically, not forgetting that Ryuji had ignored her, but shelving it for later. “Definitely Shido.”

Ryuji nodded. “Yeah, I get that, but . . . there’s just something about Akechi. I mean, he still gets my blood boiling, after all this time. Shido’s just messed up, a total monster. There’s no redemption there, in my mind. But Akechi was like, still a little bit human, you know? I almost feel like I’m more mad at him for his revenge plan than his shithead dad for fucking with every single person in Japan.”

Ann hesitated. She kind of got what he was saying, but at the same time understood it was deep enough, abstract enough, that she was probably going to handle this the wrong way. _What would Akira do?_ She asked herself, and found herself saying, “You know, I think Akira would disagree with you. I think he forgave Akechi before the end. Maybe even before the assassination attempt.”

“What? How?” Ryuji asked, his voice jumping high before he hushed himself. “He tried to kill him. In _real life._ How could Akira forgive that?”

Her thoughts flew back to a conversation she and Akira had had about a month after Akechi had died, and only a few days before they had discovered Yaldabaoth’s lair. They’d just finished a long day of fighting through levels of Mementos, and were supporting each other as they limped back to the Morgana Mobile while Yusuke and Makoto had carried Ryuji, and Futaba lent an arm to Haru. 

_Goro would have been useful, about now,_ Akira had observed quietly, _I wish we hadn’t lost him._ Ann had nearly stopped dead and asked if he was insane. She hadn’t, however, because even at the time she had appreciated him confiding in her, when he couldn’t to Ryuji or Haru, Futaba, Makoto . . . maybe even Yusuke. She was one of the few people on the team who hadn’t openly castigated Akechi since his passing, instead trying to remember the rare good things he had done. Others, like Haru and Futaba, lost themselves in the bad—the lies, the madness-fueled plans for revenge, the assassinations. Even Makoto, Akira’s fair-minded, justice-obsessed girlfriend, said it was a fortunate thing he had died to save them, because after his attempt to murder Akira, she was prepared to ‘handle’ him herself. 

And there Akira was, admitting he missed Akechi’s presence on the team. 

“I don’t know how he did it, but I know he didn’t hate him,” she admitted in the present. “Maybe it was because he understood his desperation? Or because he sacrificed himself for us?”

That was another memory Ann would never let go of—how, at the end, Akechi had only looked at Akira. With her terrible stamina, it was a minor miracle that by the end of that battle she had been one of the few members of the team still on their feet. Yet they could have all been dead and she doubted Akechi would have cared, as long as Akira was still standing. The crazed, desperate look on his face had scared her, and she had only the peripheral effect. How had Akira felt, seeing his rival depend on him, _need_ him, and then die to save him?

Ryuji’s voice cut through her reverie. “I repeat: _he tried to kill him.”_

“And if he’d tried to kill any of _us_ I think Akira wouldn’t be able to forgive him,” Ann argued. “You know he cares more for us than about himself. Because Akechi only targeted him, I think it made it easier to forgive him.”

“You just sympathize with him because he was hot,” Ryuji muttered, totally missing the point and making no effort to understand Ann’s Great Moment of Wisdom.

Ann’s eyebrows shot up. “You think Akechi was hot?”

Ryuji was appropriately scandalized. “No, I just—no! You do! Girls do! Not me!” After he’d had a moment to cool down, he continued, “Oh, do not even go there. I am totally comfortable in my heterosexual masculinity. I mean, come on. I’m friends with _Yusuke,_ for crying out loud!”

Ann smirked, but took pity on him. “Whether or not Akechi was attractive, I highly doubt that was Akira’s reason for sympathizing with him,” she pointed out. “Next time we see him, we’ll have to ask.”

“Have to ask what?” A familiar voice asked from behind them.

They tensed and spun in perfect unison. There were some things they couldn’t unlearn, and after fighting at each other’s sides for longer than anyone else in the group, Morgana and Akira excluded, they were still in sync. 

“Shiho!” Ann exclaimed, slightly nervous her friend had overheard too much. “You’re here already? Excellent, let’s get going!”

“And where are we going?” Shiho asked with an arch look. Ann noticed how Ryuji was contributing exactly nothing to this conversation, and stamped on his foot.

“Ow!”

Still not helping. She stomped on his foot again.

“God damnit, Ann. What the hell is wrong with you?” Before she could retaliate, Ryuji took refuge behind Shiho, crouching down so that he was in no way hidden by their diminutive friend. 

“Hello, Ryuji,” Shiho said, unruffled. “I see your and Ann’s comedy act is going strong.”

“Shiho, why does she hurt me?” He asked pitifully. “And how can I get her to stop?”

The girls exchanged an amused look. “Would you rather she be lovey instead?” Shiho asked, teasingly.

Ryuji’s horror was genuine. “Hell, no! That would be weird!” His voice dropped. “Also, I’m fairly sure she’s into BDSM. Whips, definitely. Shoot, she’d probably hurt me in bed, too.”

Ann rolled her eyes. There was a vast difference between fighting shadows and making kisses. Or at least she _assumed_ there was. Between phantom thieving, her modelling career, and her obvious foreign ancestry she had _zero_ experience. Still, she totally would not bring her whip into things!

(Unless asked, of course. Or if she really, really wanted to. Ok, so maybe there wasn’t much difference between fighting shadows and making kisses, and damn Ryuji for being on to her. How had he known?)

“You truly don’t like her like that at all, do you?” Shiho said, looking at Ryuji with an impressed expression. 

Ryuji gave her a mildly fearful look. “If I ever made a pass at Ann, she would kill me. Futaba would help her hide the body. My body. You know what I mean.” After a moment’s reflection he added, “She’ll probably just do that when she gets too annoyed with me, actually.” 

He grabbed her hands, making his saddest (and ineffective, in Ann’s opinion) face at her best friend. “Shiho, when that terrible day comes, remember me fondly!”

While Shiho looked as if she were biting back amusement at Ryuji’s antics, Ann was ready to get on with their day. “Futaba would do no such thing,” she said, missing the point. “I wouldn’t need any _help.”_

Shiho and Ryuji turned to look at her, their expressions of disbelief eerily similar.

_We really have to stop hanging out together all the time,_ Ann thought. _This is getting kind of weird._

***

 

 

Futaba became aware of the presence at her doorway the moment before he spoke.

“You know, it’s a lot easier on me to serve the curry where I cook it—that place the next street over? Maybe you’ve heard of it? My store, Leblanc?”

Futaba looked back over her shoulder and gave Sojiro a big grin. The pale light from her computer screen illuminated her face. “Dinner? Is it time for that _again?”_

Sojiro sighed, and Futaba took pity on him. She hopped up from her computer and wound her arm through his. “Lead the way, Sojiro! ‘Tis true, I hunger.”

For all his talk about Leblanc, they ate in the dining room. They talked of this and that—the new cup Sojiro was brewing (which Futaba said was boring but then proceeded to ask a bajillion questions about), and Futaba’s plans to visit Kana-chan this coming weekend, when she had a few days off from school. Eventually the conversation wound around to the hot topic of the month: the date of Futaba’s high school cessation.

“You’re only a second year,” Sojiro argued, as he’d done plenty of times before. “And you already skipped a year to be one! Why not just take one more year of high school as it comes, _then_ you can go to college.”

“But there’s no point!” Futaba argued. “My grades are already more than good enough to get into any university I want. _Internationally,_ even! Or did you miss the part where MIT in _America_ accepted me already? With a scholarship?”

“Because you forged your paperwork saying that you were done with high school!”

“Details!”

Sojiro sighed. “It’s not just the academic aspect, Futaba. It’s the social aspect as well. You’ve done so well in the last couple years, and you’re much more sociable than Wakaba ever was. Why not take it a step further? Make more friends, have more experiences, _take your time._ ”

Futaba scowled. How to explain that the large majority of the reason she wanted to graduate now was because she wanted to do so with Akira, Ann, Ryuji, and even that damned Inari? She wanted to stay with her friends, her _best friends_ , not just socialize with people who could only be friendly acquaintances, at best.

“You know, if I took the exams _now,_ I could get into Tokyo U for the second semester,” she said. “Then I could go to college with Akira, Makoto, and Haru!” She’d already mentioned this fourteen times over the past three weeks, but hey, fifteenth time was the charm, wasn’t that the saying?

“And what about Ryuji, Ann, and Yusuke?” Sojiro asked, perceptive as ever.

“I’d see them all the time! They’re always coming to hang out in Tokyo with Makoto and Haru.”

“And Kana-chan? She still has one year left in high school.”

Futaba shrugged. “It’s not like she’s at my high school or anything. I only get to see her once a month, at best.”

“And Kaoru-kun?”

She frowned. “He’s a year younger than me, Sojiro! It’s not like we have any classes together, anyway . . .”

Sojiro fixed her with a steely look, like he was staring right down into her soul. Futaba did her best not to squirm and made it a whole five seconds.

A new record!

“I just can’t see it,” Sojiro said finally. “I really think it would be beneficial for you to have one last year of high school. Besides, didn’t you promise Akira to have a regular high school life? You’ve compromised enough by skipping a year . . .”

Futaba narrowed her eyes. “So if I could get him to agree with me, you’d go along with it?”

Sojiro raised an eyebrow in that way he did when he knew he was right but you were just going to have to experience it yourself because you were only just 17 and really not properly socialized yet. Futaba hated that eyebrow, not in the least because _it was always right._

“If you can get him to agree, then yes,” he chuckled, and somehow, Futaba knew she had already lost. 

 

***

 

Akira had barely made it through his apartment’s door before Morgana pounced upon him. 

“I waited for _ever_ for you! Where were you? Late at the bar?” Morgana’s voice managed to be scolding and impressed at the same time when he continued, “Did old men hit on you again?”

Akira smiled gently at his still-feline friend before reaching into his pants pocket for his cell phone. “No, no. I just stayed behind to help train a new employee. Oh, but Makoto texted, earlier. Let me just—”

The phone rang in his hand, startling them. After frowning at the unknown number, Akira shifted Morgana into the crook of his arm so that he could answer it. 

“Hello?”

“Is this Kurusu Akira-san?” A harried female voice asked. In the background, there was the faint sound of many bodies moving, and the clatter of equipment. Over the PA system, a Doctor Kobayashi was being paged to emergency room three.

“Yes . . .?”

“I’m Uehara Sayoko, a nurse at the Osaka Psychiatric Hospital. I apologize for the suddenness of the call, but I went to med school with Tae Takemi, and she told me you were an admirable young man who handled weird stuff surprisingly well, so . . .”

Akira’s interest was piqued. “It’s always good to meet someone who thinks so highly of Tae,” he said leadingly, trying to gauge if he should run, and if so, how quickly.

“Oh, she’s best of the best; an absolute firebrand,” the nurse agreed. “Drank us under the table at least 3 work nights out of 5. She spoke well of you, and as I said, this is a situation which requires some . . . flexibility.”

“What’s the trouble?” Akira asked, already committed. Doctor Tae knew who he was and a little about what he did, and had proven herself a staunch ally both during and after their run as the Phantom Thieves. He trusted in her discretion, and would assist anyone she directed to him, as much as he could with the Metaverse now closed to them.

“It’s one of our patients,” Nurse Uehara admitted bluntly. “He woke up two days ago after being admitted in a . . . well, I’d call it a coma, but none of his vitals were reading the way they were supposed to. His condition is only one part of the mystery. No one can figure out how long he’s been here—guesses range from anywhere from a week to 3 months. Neither can we figure out how he got to the hospital in the first place, as there’s no record of him being admitted or even being administered to.” 

She sighed deeply, and without knowing what she looked like, Akira could only imagine her pinching the bridge of her nose, or rubbing her temples. Her frustration was palpable. “The weirdest thing is that most people just _forget_ about him. As far as I know, I’m one of the few people in the hospital who even realizes he’s here, let alone _tends_ to him.”

Well, now. That was interesting. It sounded like something connected to the Metaverse . . . maybe a shadow, or some incredibly construct like Morgana? Or perhaps an evolved cognition roaming free? But then wouldn’t medical scans show something amiss? And why would an escaped shadow need medical attention in the first place?

“How can I help you?” He asked, already wondering how on Earth he could do so when the Metaverse was closed to them. It might be best to see if Ann, Ryuji, and Futaba could travel over to see him—they were all on break, and he’d feel better with a rudimentary team at his side, even if not in the Metaverse. 

The nurse sighed. “Well, he’s been asking for you ever since he woke up. I hoped you might know more about him.”

Akira froze, calculations for getting his friends here as soon as possible halted. “He’s asking for me by name?”

“Yes. A few of my colleagues—the ones that can remember him, at least—think he’s only saying it because you uh, _just happen to share a name_ with the legendary phantom thief, but ever since he first woke up he’s been adamant about it, and I’ve been a nurse long enough to know when someone is being serious.”

Akira started thinking quickly. This was likely nothing good, but it was definitely exciting, and after a year of living as an average high schooler, he had a hard time turning it down. 

“What’s his name?” He asked, as Morgana, who had heard everything yowled in concern.

“We don’t know,” Nurse Uehara admitted. “The only name he knows is yours.”

…

…

…

…

…

Akira went, obviously, because what else could he do? Morgana went with him because this could very easily be a trap, and also because he was just as curious. It was nostalgic to get onto public transport with Morgana meowing quietly in his messenger bag, telling Akira all the things that could go wrong and why couldn’t he just remember to bring a book onto the train for once? Even more so when, in sight of the hospital, Akira pulled out his cell phone and texted the still-extant and very well hidden secret texting group, The Phantom Thieves.

_I just got a call from a nurse,_ he texted as he stepped up to one of the hospital’s side entrances. Nurse Uehara had directed him to an employee entrance so they could get to the bottom of this sooner, and not have to explain to hospital administration that he was here visiting a patient that 98% of the hospital couldn’t remember existed, and who had absolutely not paid any of his medical bills.

_An unknown man has woken up from a mysterious coma and the only thing he knows is my name,_ Akira continued. _I’m going to check it out._

A moment later, every single one of his friends’ icons popped up with the ‘...’ next to it. It was a thankful thing his sound was off, as the flurry of texts would have alerted the hospital staff to his entrance. As it was, he left his phone in his pocket as he followed Nurse Uehara through the winding passages of the hospital. Both were in too much of a rush to do more than confirm their identities, let alone chat, and Uehara was so overworked that she left him as soon as they reached the hallway the mysterious coma patient was in.

“Room 336,” she reminded him, before scuttling away to resolve the latest crisis. “And don’t let Doctor Yamamoto catch you. Hide, if you need to. He’s a real stickler for visiting hours and protocol.”

Akira was a little shaken by her absolute productivity, but made his way to the door, regardless. He hesitated when 336 was in view, and remembered his cell phone. 

All of his friends had responded at once.

**Ann—** _Oh my god. It’s gotta be him!_

**Haru—** _Definitely him. Who else could it be?_

**Ryuji—** _Wait, what? What’s going on? Who?_

**Makoto—** _Don’t go in alone! Bring Morgana with you!_

**Yusuke—** _But he was dead! Futaba was quite sure that his reading cut out . . ._

**Ryuji—** _Seriously, who is everyone talking about??!!_

**Futaba—** _I . . . could have been wrong?_

**Futaba—** _Unlikely, though. Maybe it’s someone else? An imposter?_

**Futaba—** _Someone completely different . . . who knows your name . . ._

**Ann—** _Did his shadow get out into the real world? Or Shido’s cognition?!_

**Ryuji—** _GUYS, COME ON_

**Makoto—** _If you can stand to wait for a couple of hours, I can drive there and go with you._

**Ryuji—** _WILL SOMEONE TELL ME WHO WE’RE TALKING ABOUT?_

**Ann—** _Ugh, Ryuji. Keep up will you?_

Akira glanced through the texts, but he did not respond. His attention was taken up by the small window set into the upper half of the door, and, upon looking through it, the identity of the man within. There was no mistaking him, and Akira’s stomach performed an odd little lurch when he laid eyes on him.

Morgana poked his head out of the messenger bag, just enough so that he too could see the too-thin young man on the hospital bed. “That’s him, all right,” he purred. “Wow, he doesn’t look so good, does he?”

Akira tore his eyes away from the boy on the bed to text his friends and allay their fears. 

_There’s no need,_ he texted. _He’s in no shape to hurt anyone._

This time, it was Ryuji who was quickest on the draw.

**Ryuji— _WHO?!?!?!?!?!_**

Akira sucked in his lips as he watched the thin blanket rise and fall with the occupant’s shallow breaths. 

_It’s him,_ he texted back, without looking at the screen. _Goro Akechi._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dunnnnnn
> 
> I am taking some liberties with Uehara’s role (she’s mentioned briefly in game) by placing her at a hospital elsewhere, and that she knew Tae in med school. Forgive me. 
> 
> Also, my apologies to Taylor Swift fans. 
> 
> I was a little confused with the ages, so what I am going with is Haru, Makoto, and Goro are (currently) 20, Akira, Ann, Yusuke and Shiho are 19, Ryuji is 18 turning 19 and Futaba just turned 17. Morgana is 3 and also 3000, because he is our magical talking cat, dang it.  
> …  
> …  
> ...
> 
> Next chapter: Akechi wakes up but is maybe not so angry yet, and Akira has a pleasant chat with some old friends in which suicide, homicide, and revenge are expounded upon.


	2. It's time for some rehabilitation

**Chapter 2: It’s time for some rehabilitation**

 

* * *

 

 

 

Two hours, one instance of hiding under the bed from an orderly who poked his head in, and one hundred and fifteen texts in the Phantom Thieves chat group later, Akechi woke up. It was heralded by nothing more than a minute change in his breathing pattern, causing Akira to glance up from his phone. He’d been in the act of texting yet another round of reassurances to everyone, and he’d privately decided that he’d give it ten more minutes. If Akechi hadn’t woken in that time, he’d go home and try again tomorrow.

It was then that Akechi stirred, and his slow, calm breathing pattern faltered. Akira had barely set his phone down when Akechi’s eyes opened, his whole body tensed, and he began to scream—wordlessly wailing, accompanied by wild thrashing and guttural moans. 

Akira crowded onto the cot with him so he could hold him down. “It’s ok, it’s ok!” He said over and over again, praying no one was around to hear and investigate. “Please, calm down. It’s ok. You’re safe!”

Akechi’s screams began to take shape and meaning. “Uncuff me, please! Please don’t—where’s the old man? Where is—? Please, let me go!”

“You’re not cuffed,” Akira said loudly, and managed to pull one hand away to touch Akechi’s wrist. “See? You’re fine.”

“Old man?” Morgana yowled from his position on top of Akechi’s chest. His weight, little as it was, was enough to help hold the emaciated teenager down. “What is he talking about?”

Akechi let out another wordless wail before continuing, “Please don’t take me back to the cell,” he begged, his voice dropping as his strength waned. Tears rolled down from the corners of his eyes as he pleaded like a child, “Please let me stay in the blue room. Wanna be found. Wanna be saved.”

“You’re safe. It’s fine. You’re safe,” Akira repeated, at a loss for what would reassure his enemy. “You’re not in the cell, or the blue room. I’ve got you. You’re _safe_.”

“Cell . . .” Morgana whispered, horrified. “Was he held prisoner, all this time?”

“I’m safe?” Akechi whispered, his voice cracking. His eyes finally began to track, rather than casting wildly down the room. “I’m not there anymore? Where am I?”

“You’re in the hospital,” Akira said gently. ”You’re safe, I promise.”

Now that Akechi had calmed down, Morgana craned his head closer. His little body tensed, and Akira suspected he was ready for anything. Who knew what Akechi would do when he regained full coherency? 

Who knew what Akechi would do if he _remembered_ them?

Laying back on the bed, Akechi blinked away the tears, his gaze focusing on Akira for the first time. Akira tensed. The detective prince had made no secret that he’d hated him. Would the sight of his former enemy prove too much for him?

“You . . . Who are you?” He asked, and Akira exhaled slowly. Oddly enough, he felt disappointed, as if he thought the sight of him _should_ return Akechi’s memories. If he’d meant enough to murder, couldn’t he be important enough to remember?

“Akira Kurusu,” he said quietly. “I hear you’ve been looking for me. Well, here I am.” He gave him a small, wan smile. “Good work, detective.”

The smile of sheer relief transformed Akechi’s face. For a moment he was something other than the desperately frightened, starved boy on the bed, or the desperately angry, still-too-thin boy from Akira’s memories. For a moment he was beautiful, and Akira remembered Ryuji’s mumbling about him right after he had joined the team: _I don’t trust him, Akira. Boys shouldn’t be that pretty. It’s just weird._

Akira blinked, stunned at his reaction. _What the hell?_ He thought, before his thoughts spiralled down into a vague stream of consciousness. _Could he always smile like that? And did my heart just skip a freaking beat?_ Clearly, his body simply did not know how to handle a Goro Akechi who was happy to see him. 

From Morgana’s startled mrowl, he didn’t either.

“Oh, thank goodness,” Akechi said, ignoring their consternation. “I’ll be safe now, won’t I?”

Surprise threatened to take hold again, and Akira leaned forward, forcing himself to break this weird stalemate. He laid his hand on Akechi’s forehead, like a father might do for a sick child. 

“You’re safe now,” he promised for the fourth time. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

***

Ten minutes later, the brunt of Akechi’s fears passed, Akira and Morgana learned something new about their ex-enemy. Not only did he not remember them, himself, or anything that had ever happened to him, he really liked cats.

“She’s so pretty,” Amnesiac Akechi said, stroking Morgana’s fur gently. Since the raving had finished he had been as happy and simple as a child, and that was what had Morgana submitting to the humiliation of Akechi’s (admittedly gentle) touch. Akira knew that Morgana was unsure of whether he was faking it or not, and he was waiting for a chance to see if he slipped up. Akira also knew that Morgana had maneuvered himself into biting range, should anything go wrong.

“Well, he’s a boy, but yeah, he’s a real beauty,” Akira said, still unnerved by the sight of a happy, smiling Akechi. It was somehow so different than the calm, mature smiles he wore as part of his ‘Detective Prince’ mask. This was a little lopsided, toothy, and at once both completely natural and mildly terrifying. Akechi was never supposed to be _happy,_ was he? 

God. What was the world coming to?

“A beautiful boy,” Akechi said, delighted at the paradox. He attempted to rub his face in Morgana’s fur, and Morgana, who had weathered more of Amnesiac Akechi than any one person ought, struggled out of his grip.

“Hey, watch the merchandise!” He complained. “No molesting the cat!”

Akechi’s eyes blew wide. “Did he just talk?”

Akira gave Morgana a look. That hadn’t taken long to blow his cover. “Uh. Well. Yes.”

The bed bound teen looked back at Morgana, now sitting at his feet. “Is he a magical talking cat?” He asked, sounding entirely too excited at the prospect.

Akira had never been moved or even all that excited by the Detective Prince’s fame and acclaim—the horde of adoring fangirls at the height of his popularity had been a source of frustration for Ryuji, but mostly of confusion for him. Who cared if he dressed well, spoke gently, and smiled like some fairy tale prince? Couldn’t they tell it was all fake?

Now, however, when he was sick and thin and couldn’t remember a damn thing, he was adorable. He smiled up at him with a crooked grin and and his eyes were lit with exorbitant levels of happiness, and Akira shifted uncomfortably at how cute he was. Like those dang cat videos on the internet that Ann sent him, or Futaba’s (three) baby pictures. 

(One of them was of a tiny infant Futaba scowling furiously at the camera, taken by Sojiro when he’d visited, long ago. She wore something that looked a bit like a Scottish kilt, a loose bow tie, and a hat that had cat ears on it. God only knew the circumstance that had led to such a picture’s existence, but even Yusuke had admitted it was the cutest damn thing he’d ever seen.)

“Morgana is a magical talking cat, yes,” he said slowly, willing himself to grow up or at least stop thinking of Akechi in one of those cat videos or procuring _his_ baby pictures. “But only some people can hear him. Most just hear normal cat sounds.”

“Can he talk with cats, too?” Akechi asked, intrigued.

Akira looked over at Morgana. He’d never even thought about that, but now that Akechi mentioned it . . . “Can you?” He asked.

“No!” Morgana said. “I was created to guide humanity, remember? What’s the point of talking with _cats?”_

“No, apparently,” Akira finished, turning back to Akechi. “He cannot talk with cats.”

“I understood him,” Akechi pointed out, too pleased with this discovery to even pretend to be grumpy. 

Remembering how Akechi had lied to them about understanding Morgana, and how they had eventually tricked him through that one tiny mistake, Akira’s response was subdued. “Yes, you do.”

“And you’re really Akira Kurusu?” Akechi asked, relieved. “I can’t believe it. I’m so lucky to wake up and find you so quickly. You found me, even! I thought I’d have to look for you forever and ever.”

A shadow of suspicion entered his mind. His obsession with ‘finding him’ might stem from his repressed last memories of their battle . . . or it could be caused by something more sinister. If he was trying to finish the deadly game Yaldabaoth had started, years ago, he was in a prime position to do so.

No time like the present to find out. “Why were you looking for me?”

Akechi frowned as he thought, a cloud passing over his happiness. “I don’t know, exactly,” he admitted. “It seemed so important when I was . . . there. I couldn’t tell you why, though.” His head tipped to the side just slightly. “It might be because I thought you could stop the bad man.” 

“The bad man?” Akira asked.

Akechi shivered and his gaze skittered away. He curled up into himself before admitting, “He wanted me to do the bad things, but I—I didn’t want to. He had a brother who was better, but I can’t remember why I think that. Maybe he was the one who told me to find you?” He looked up at him, his posture relaxing, his smile tentative. “You’ll figure it out. I know you will.”

For what felt like the hundredth time today, Akira was stunned. His chest throbbed, and he found himself rubbing it as he considered the level of Akechi’s faith in him. Even from beyond the grave, and as his self-professed mortal enemy he had depended on Akira to this extent? This was humbling, and for a moment Akira wanted nothing more than to take this trust and make it permanent. Or at the very least, to _earn_ such a privilege. 

Morgana said nothing, but his stare was a heavy weight. Akira could practically feel it on the side of his head, and knew that as soon as Akechi was sleeping again, he’d be getting an earful. Why, he had no idea. Maybe Morgana was just nervous, or maybe he wasn’t saying anything when he really should be saying _something._

“I wonder why I knew you’d save me?” Akechi mused. He looked up shyly through long, thick lashes. “Were we friends?”

“ _We will be,_ ” Akira muttered, ignoring Morgana’s incredulous look.

“What was that?” Akechi asked.

“If you want to be,” He replied, more fairly. There was no indication that Akechi would want any of that when he awoke. Nor that he would remember any of this. Hadn’t he read something about amnesiac victims not remembering any part of their episode when they finally regained their memories?

“Right now, I’m just glad you’re alive,” he finished. “Let’s take it from here.”

“I’m glad I’m alive too,” Akechi grinned. “And I think I’d like to be your friend. I’ve never had one before. At least, I don’t remember having any. Is it hard to be a friend?”

Akechi thought of his own friends, who were likely losing their collective minds over his radio silence for the last half hour. All were difficult and disparate individuals, but as loyal and amazing as any person could ever be. All of them hated Akechi, however, in their own ways, and it was with this in mind that he answered him, “Not for me, so as long as you stick with me, it’ll be ok. I’ll show you how it’s done, Goro.”

Akechi stiffened. “What did—what did you say?” He stuttered.

Akira frowned. “Your name.” Realizing he had forgotten even that, he sighed, “It’s your name.”

“My name is Goro?”

“Yeah. Goro Akechi.”

Awareness lit his face. He stiffened, opened his mouth as if to say something . . . and then passed out, slumping heavily against the hospital pillow. 

“Oh, this is not good,” Morgana said quietly from his perch on the bed besides Akechi’s hip. “His name was the trigger. He’s gonna’ remember everything when he wakes up.”

“You sure?”

The ‘cat’ gave him a look. “You do remember who you’re talking to, right? Expert on amnesia, here!”

Akira wasn’t entirely sure he was any such thing, but he would give that Morgana had fought hard to regain his memories, even if they were not at all what he’d hoped they’d be.“But he’ll remember everything?”

“With our luck, he’s gonna remember _enough.”_

“True,” Akira allowed. “Our luck is not always the best.”

“You better text everybody,” Morgana continued. “Otherwise Makoto’s gonna’ break all the speed laws in Japan just to get to you.”

That was entirely within the realms of possibility, so he tapped out a quick text to everyone: _Akechi woke up. Very ill, and doesn’t remember anything. Even Morgana agrees he’s not a threat atm. Gonna ask our blue friends for some info. If anyone knows what happened to him, it’ll be them._ After showing it to Morgana, who grudgingly agreed, he fired it off. 

As if on cue, all his friends began barraging him with texts, but he ignored them in favor of admitting to Morgana, “I think I know how to find out what happened to him.”

“What? How?”

Akira fished in his pocket for a moment before withdrawing a glowing, blue key. Morgana’s eyes widened at the sight of it. 

“What _is_ that?”

“Lavenza gave it to me before I left Tokyo, a year ago. Even though the Velvet Room dissolved, I’m pretty sure it still exists.” Akira tapped his head. “It’s still in our cognitions, right? And the key has to lead _somewhere.”_

Morgana nodded, an entirely human gesture. “So you’re going back to the Velvet Room, then? Think they’ll have the answers?”

“Answers or no, I think Akechi was kept there,” Akira said carefully. “It sounds a lot like what he was describing, but I can’t imagine the real Igor or Lavenza keeping him prisoner.”

“So he’s either wrong, or it was . . .” Morgana took a moment to muster his courage. “The _other_ one.”

“Either way, I have to find out. Can you stay with him until I get back? I’ll try to be quick, but I do have to find a way in.”

Morgana curled up at Akechi’s side. “Of course. If I can’t go with you, I’ll do the next best thing. Don’t ask me to answer your phone though. Claws don’t do well on touch screens.”

Akira grinned at the thought of Morgana working the iphone with his claws, or funnier still, his paws. “You sure? I know you don’t like him, and had a hard time dealing with what he tried to do to me . . .”

Morgana growled. “Of course I don’t like him. Because of him, countless innocents are dead, or in jail. He even tried to kill you, my best friend!” He swished his tail angrily before taking a deep breath and making an obvious effort to calm himself. “But we need to know what happened to him,” he said, more rationally. “Plus how he survived in the first place. If he’s been held _captive_ all this time . . .” Morgana trailed off. “We need to know that too. I mean, he looks terrible. Clearly the last year has not been a good one for him.”

“No,” Akira said softly, belatedly remembering Sae Niijima, one if the foremost defense attorneys in Japan, and her vendetta against all those who had in any way served Shido or his shadowy cabal. “And I’m worried the coming one might not be much better.”

***

Akira was prepared to search everywhere for a portal to the Velvet Door, if it still existed, and at all possible speed. As it turned out, he needed no such determination. A familiar, glowing blue door was located directly outside Akechi’s hospital room door, leaving Akira no doubt where his arch-nemesis had been kept, and how he had arrived in the hospital in the first place. All that was left to discover was _why,_ and Akira thought—hoped—that Igor would be in a chatty mood. He’d pretty much left the front door open, after all.

Akira stepped through, half-expecting to be wearing his outdated prisoner attire, bound to a ball and chain, lying down on a thin, cold cot. Yet this time he was transported right to the heart of the Velvet Room, with Igor sitting behind his desk, thin legs crossed at the knee. Lavenza, a vision in blue with her winged headband and dress, sat primly in a chair at her master’s side. Both looked well pleased to see him.

“Ah, welcome, my friend.” Igor said, waving him in, graciously. “We were wondering when you would arrive.”

At his side Lavenza smiled and stood, giving a graceful bow. “It is always a pleasure to see you. Thank you for coming all this way.”

Akira returned her bow out of habit. “Ah, thank you. It’s good to see you both. But for Akechi’s sake, do you think we could cut right to the chase?” _And no cryptic bullshit hints?_ Akira thought quietly, hoping that neither of them could read his mind.

Igor raised an eyebrow. “For Akechi’s sake?” He repeated, his high-pitched, reedy voice a comfort after False-Igor’s low bass rumble. “Is that such a consideration for you?”

Always with the questions, even when he wasn’t the False-Igor/Holy Grail/Yaldabaoth combo. “Shouldn’t it be?” Akira shot back.

“He did try to kill you,” Igor pointed out. “That generally tends to create hard feelings.”

“He was your dark nemesis in Yaldabaoth’s ‘game,’ Lavenza said, impassioned. “He did not extend such mercy to you when your positions were reversed.”

Akira shrugged. “I never expected him to.” And he hadn’t. Goro had been more than a worthy opponent, he had been an obsessively determined one. He was also a closet narcissist and misanthropist, and the few moments of humanity that had been wrested from him were like jewels sparkling in the firmament, to quote Yusuke at his most eloquent. It had been those things, among others, which made defeating him so very worthwhile. 

“Then why do you want to save him?” Lavenza asked, truly puzzled.

Akira sighed and tried to formulate a response from the confusion that roiled up within him when he considered the last few weeks of what he considered his ‘first life’ that culminated in Akechi’s murder attempt, and the first few weeks of his ‘second.’ He’d gone back and forth on how to feel about Goro Akechi, but even as soon as a month after the attempt he had been able to rationalize it in an odd way that no one other than a wild card could understand. Throughout their acquaintance, Akechi had been a social link as strong as any other, and that link had finally been completed when he’d tried to kill him a second time. He’d shed his princely mask and allowed Akira to see the real him—the desperation, frustration, the longing to be accepted. At the end, he’d even admitted that he wished he could have met Akira first. It was that powerful moment which had created the indelible bond between them, and had allowed Akira to forge some of his most valuable personas.

It was more than that, however. The ‘game’ wouldn’t have been worth winning without a worthy opponent, Akira knew. In a twisted way, Akechi’s betrayal had only made Akira stronger, and he’d never felt closer to him than when he cocked the pistol at his head. 

“He was a very important social link,” Akira said, knowing they at least would understand. “The justice arcana proved invaluable to me. And he was . . .”

“Yes?” Igor prompted.

With a small wince, Akira continued, “I never thought it was too late for him. Even after he did what he did, I always thought that of all of them, maybe he could be saved.” He shook his head. “He suffered more from Yaldabaoth’s game than anyone.”

“You believe he could benefit from rehabilitation?” Lavenza asked, an astounded expression on her face.

Akira cracked a smile at that. Caroline and Justine were gone forever, but there were still echoes that reminded him of them, now and again.

Igor sat back in his chair, steepling his spindly fingers. “It is heartening to hear that you feel this way. We’d hoped you would, and it is a pleasure that one’s expectations have been met—or perhaps, even exceeded. But no doubt you have questions. Let us do our best to address them.”

A chair appeared for him, materializing out of blue air. Akira sat, nodding his thanks, and prepared to listen.

“Although I am intrinsically connected to the Velvet Room, Yaldabaoth’s power was such that I was unaware of what he did in it,” Igor admitted with a dark look on his brow. “After you returned me to my rightful place and put that interfering god back in his own, I found a surprise in the deepest dungeon. Ah yes,” he chuckled at the look of surprise on Akira’s face. “There are more cells than those that surround us, and those in which you found your friends. Think of it as akin to the isolation chamber where your personas were placed to strengthen them. That is where Goro Akechi was kept, in a stasis to keep his body and soul from dying.”

Lavenza took up the slack as if scripted to do so. “I have vague memories of him in the Velvet Room when I was split into Caroline and Justine, but they are very difficult to piece together. I’m not entirely sure when he was taken, but assume it must have been directly after his presumed death. I believe that I was instructed to care for him, and help keep him alive, all the while keeping it a secret from you. Other than that, however, I have no recollection.” Her young, beautiful face was marred by a frown. “It is almost as if that information has been wiped from my mind . . .”

“We can only assume Yaldabaoth kept him here for some nefarious purpose,” Igor continued. “Yet what that was we cannot say, nor if it has been averted. Goro Akechi was his unwilling puppet once, his dark pawn in our game of chess. Who is to say he is not _his_ even now?”

“He broke free before the end,” Akira said confidently. He was sure of it. As hateful as Akechi could be, he was his own man when he died.

“Perhaps,” Igor allowed.

“We won’t know anything at all until he begins to remember,” Akira argued, unsure of where, exactly, Igor stood.

The master of the Velvet Room nodded. “Indeed. It was for information that we initially kept him here. To return him to your world would mean death from either his injuries or human justice, so we meddled a touch. It took him a long time to heal—the damage was great, and the human brain is a tricky thing to fix, but when he began to suffer from night terrors, we knew he was beginning to surface from his coma.”

“His outbursts were educational,” Lavenza said. “We learned much of what he feared, and some of what was done to him. Yaldabaoth was indeed grooming him for some second purpose, and it was a task that the young man feared to undertake. Perhaps he even refused him outright. He tried to argue against his own qualifications, and from that we assume Yaldabaoth thought him a more powerful player—or perhaps a more sympathetic one—than any of his other human ‘tools.’ He might have thought Akechi could again be pitted against you and your friends.’”

“I imagine he was also put out by your resurrection trick,” Igor interjected. “What god wants to be outdone?”

“Regardless, it was Yaldabaoth’s power that kept him alive, and then sustained him,” Lavenza continued. “It must have been just enough to see Akechi through the worst of his injuries, for all his power was leached away when you shut him away for good.”

“When _we_ shut him away for good,” Akira corrected softly. “It was never just me. It was all of us. _Everyone.”_

“But the question of Akechi’s fate _is_ down to you,” Igor said. “As is his life. He shall not survive if you do not stand by him. Without your guidance, he shall meet his doom, whether by his own hand or another. And the chance for his carving out a path as a righteous member of society is very slim, indeed. It might be safer in the long run to let him die, if that is what he desires. Then we need not worry about Yaldabaoth’s revenge from beyond the grave, so to speak, and you can live a life without worry. It would be well-deserved.”

Akira’s gaze snapped to Igor’s. He was infuriated, far more quickly and with less provocation than the question should have provided. “I’m sorry, I think I misheard you. Did you just invite me to let him _die?”_

Igor met his gaze with equanimity. “Would you ever have considered it?”

Akira leaned forward. “Hell. No.”

A smile wreathed Igor’s homely face, and it was reflected by a matching one on Lavenza’s. “Excellent,” he said, practically rubbing his hands together with glee. “I suspected we could count on you, but it was best to make sure. That being the case, let me alleviate your fears on one point: he was conscious enough for me to negotiate in his dreams—no mean feat when in the Velvet Room already—and he made a pact with me which he shall recall in time. The price he paid was his power to cause psychotic breaks. Thus, even were he to somehow escape you, find a way to convene with his scarred and broken personas, and attempt to wreak havoc, he would be severely limited in his means to do so.”

“Of course, this is assuming he found some other way into the Stream, which is highly unlikely,” Lavenza pointed out, which made Akira sit up and pay attention. Stream? What stream? And why did that term make him think, however briefly, of the Metaverse, a tower at midnight, and the flickering light of a television set?

“That’s good to hear,” Akira said, rather than ask about this mysterious stream. “That may help the rest of the team accept him.” He hesitated. “Well. Eventually.”

“It will be to your credit, should they do so,” Lavenza said, giving him a gracious smile.

“Or their own sense of forgiveness and what is right,” Akira argued. He still found it difficult to stand any sort of censure—however slight—against his gang of misfits. “My friends are kind of awesome, you know.”

“Indeed they are,” Igor agreed. “Persona users of the finest calibre. And some with very stylish dance—I mean, fighting moves. But this worry remains: Akechi’s return will in no way alleviate his own guilt. He may try to do himself harm, or allow someone else to do so. What will you tell him when he claims to deserve death?”

Akira had no blessed idea. He’d been hoping that sort of thing would come to him when he needed it to. Perhaps Igor was right to start him thinking about it. 

As it was, he had only one idea. 

With a barely concealed grin at Lavenza, he announced, “I’ll say it’s time for some rehabilitation.”

 

***

What felt like hours later—but was in fact mere minutes, and most of those spent loitering in front of the door, deciding what to do—Akira stepped back through hospital room 336. There on the bed was Akechi, sleeping soundly, his long, thin fingers resting on Morgana’s fur. 

Akira turned to his phone before alerting Morgana. He ignored the hundreds of texts in the group chat, and the 25 or so individual texts his friends had sent, hoping to get through. This was to say nothing of all the phone calls. He scrolled through his contacts, selected a much-called and completely memorized number, and brought the phone to his ear.

“Ah, good evening Sojiro-san,” he said when the grumpy owner of Leblanc answered his cell phone. “I’m sorry to call so late, but I was wondering if you had a few minutes to talk . . .?”


	3. This is how the best decisions are made

Only three nights after Makoto Niijima (successfully) managed to get Haru so drunk that she forgot her entire crusade to learn about love vicariously by the next day, (not to mention the discovery of Goro Akechi  _ not being dead),  _ she sat at a fancy restaurant in the heart of Tokyo with a glass full of sake upraised, a smile on her lips and a toast ringing in the air.

“To my amazing big sis,” she said. “Brilliant, beautiful, and the newest addition to the winningest defensive team in Japan!”

Sae gave her a censorious look as she clinked her glass against her just-legal little sister’s, but it was softened by the the corners of her mouth which kept tucking up in a little smile. “Oh, stop. I was offered the position months ago. Why are you so excited about it now?” She paused to think. “Also, is winningest even a word?”

“Is now,” Makoto smirked. “And I’m so excited for you! This is so wonderful, and  _ no one  _ deserves it more than you. You have worked so hard for this, and brought unbelievable villains to justice. The firm would be insane if they gave it to anyone  _ but _ you.”

Makoto’s joy was honest and infectious, and it cracked Sae’s carefully kept stoic veneer. She grinned back before leaning in before quietly allowing, “Well, I’m not the only one at this table that has brought some unbelievable villains to justice. I’m certainly not the only hero at the table.” She paused before admitting, “I think Mother and Father would be proud of us.”

The younger Niijima had to swallow down a lump in her throat. A faint memory rose to the fore: Shido’s shadow plainly, yet not unkindly, telling Haru that the dead were gone, and there was no reason to worry for him any longer. Were he correct, the dead no longer gave a damn about anything the living did. 

_ Shido was full of bullshit, _ she reminded herself. “They absolutely are,” she agreed. “They’re watching us from Heaven, and they are so proud of what we’ve become.”

“And for staying together,” Sae agreed, in a rare moment of sentimentality. Makoto was unsure of how spiritually inclined her sister was, but even when her nature had been at its most twisted, she had never attempted to argue Makoto out of her belief that her parents were in Heaven, watching over them. That she agreed so readily now was a good sign. 

“And for staying together,” Makoto murmured, tearing up. “Even though we don’t technically live together anymore . . .”

Sae brushed that aside. “You’d never see me, even if we did. I’ll be pulling 80 hour weeks for the next few months, at least. I’m giving serious thought to sleeping on that couch in my office.”

“Don’t work  _ too _ hard,” Makoto scolded her sister. “The last thing we need is a normal breakdown. Come and spend time with Haru and I whenever you need a break!”

Sae’s smile was accompanied by a gentle press of her hand. “Of course I will. And it won’t be  _ all  _ work. I do have a standing date at Leblanc at least once a week—Sojiro-san has brewed up a new blend of coffee that a little bird has told me he’s naming, ‘Justice’.”

“Oh, that sounds great!” The younger Niijima enthused. And then, in a quiet aside, “As long as it doesn’t use elephant dung . . .”

Sae grinned and took a sip of her sake before noting, “I was just there this morning, actually, and I heard some news that I’m sure has  _ you _ very happy.”

“Oh?” Makoto couldn’t imagine what it could be. Had Futaba accomplished something of important (and legal) note, recently? Or maybe Sojiro had won an award in the magazine  _ Eclectic Coffee Houses of Japan?  _

It couldn’t be that the old bane of her existence had resurfaced in a psychiatric hospital in Osaka. For one thing, neither of them would be smiling. For another, Sae would have cancelled tonight’s celebratory dinner to throw him in the most heavily protected jail cell she could find. 

Sae gave her the look that generally signified her younger sister was being dense for no good reason. “You know, the news that your boyfriend is moving back to Yongen-Jaya? I know you must be so excited to see him again, as it’s been so hard for the last year . . . ” A look of comprehension filtered over Sae’s face. “Oh, were you hoping to keep that a secret from me? Don’t worry, Makoto. I know that you’re an adult now, doing adult things. Just promise me you’ll be careful.  _ Very _ careful. I’m not ready for nieces or nephews, and I know for a fact that Sojiro isn’t ready for grandchildren, either.”

“I—you got me, sis,” Makoto said, faking a chuckle. Meanwhile, beneath her smile, her ire was building at such a rate that had Ryuji been there, he would have begun whimpering. “It’s a little embarrassing to talk about, but it’ll be so wonderful to have him here again.”

“I’ve heard long distance relationships are difficult,” Sae agreed, ignoring or not recognizing the warning signs of Makoto’s impending rage, particularly as it wasn’t directed towards her. “But as he’s applied to Tokyo University, I’m hopeful he’ll be here to stay. His grades were on par with yours, if I recall correctly.”

Makoto nodded, but her thoughts were still divided on preserving this delightful evening with her sister—no doubt the last for the next few months, as she worked to overhaul the corruption in the current system—and marching out, calling her boyfriend, and reaming him in public for  _ not telling her any of this. _

“Yes, Akira was a presence much-missed,” Sae continued, completely oblivious to her sister’s dilemma. “Sojiro was over the moon to hear he’d be returning. You could tell by that sarcastic twinkle in his eye.”

That was just odd enough to pull Makoto from internally fanning the fires of her rage. “Sarcastic twinkle in his eye?”

Sae nodded importantly, slightly tipsy. “Some man have it. All men want it. Sojiro’s been given a gift, little sis. One can only hope he passes it down to Akira-kun.”

This, paired with her earlier comment on grandchildren, stuck out at Makoto. “You realize Akira is not actually related to Sojiro-san, yes?”

Sae waved her hand in front of her face. “Details.”

Makoto was about to really dig into this argument—for Akira’s biological parents, absent as they were, would likely have something to say about the subject of their son’s paternity—but just then Sae’s phone went off.

“Oh, foot,” she said after glancing at the number. “I have to take this. Will you excuse me a moment?”

Makoto nodded dutifully.

Sae mouthed  _ love you!  _ Before she answered the call, snapping back into the sober, unflappable, nigh immovable, scary lady of the court. Makoto admired the shift in persona—ha!—as she watched her sister go. As soon as she was out of visual range, however, her rage frothed like that cup in the Christian Bible that runneth over.

It runneth over quite a bit, in fact, and Makoto began to think fondly of Ann’s whip. It all boiled down to this: why hadn’t her boyfriend told her he was coming back to Yongen-Jaya? Followed by: what could she do to make him regret this misstep?

There was one thing she knew for certain, however. 

This was all Akechi’s fault.

***

The group-wide skype call was set for 9 PM that evening. Futaba was running it, of course, because she was brilliant and amazing and  _ hello _ the hacker of the group, from the cafe floor of Leblanc. Ann, Ryuji, and Haru were already present, and Makoto would arrive any moment now, having left dinner with her sister (surprisingly on time) after Sae had gotten a work call. Sojiro was pottering around in the kitchen, preparing coffee for his guests, but also to be on hand for the details. He  _ was _ involved, after all, and not just because he knew what was going on.

Inari was already online, and sending passive aggressive chats her way. Futaba answered them quickly and effortlessly, thus proving her brilliance was better than his talent. Futaba was a little unclear why he was so damn popular in Japan right now. So what if he was tall with flippy dark hair and classic bone structure? He was a weirdo who took pleasure in baiting 17-year-old girls, (namely her) and, more importantly, was a dingus who just did not get anime. 

As for the guest(s) of honor, Akira and Morgana, they were yet to sign on. To be safe they had planned on sneaking into the hospital again to give the report directly from Goro Akechi’s hospital room. He had not woken up again since they had revealed his name, and everyone except Futaba was worried about this. She had, throughout her career as Medjed and Alibaba, slept for solid weeks at a time, waking only briefly to pee and scarf down curry. She did not understand why everyone was so worried Akechi had slipped back into a coma. He’d wake up when he was good and ready. 

Which was why  _ she _ was worried, of course, although she was capable of admitting that it wouldn’t matter in the long run. The fact that he was somehow still breathing would only expose the terrible choice she had made sooner rather than later, and whether he knew what she had done—which she doubted—everyone else soon would. 

“You’re taking pictures now?” Ryuji whined.

“It’s just to Shiho, calm down,” Ann replied, tilting her camera angle to include Ryuji as well.

“Ann, do not include me in your selfie. I do not take selfies.”

“Jeez, Ryuji, didn’t you put on your makeup this morning?”

Futaba glanced up at her bickering teammates. While Yusuke perpetually worried they were gonna get horizontal and naked someday, she just couldn’t see it. They were like besties and siblings all at once, just like her and Akira . . . except they showed their latent affection by bickering, rather than having meaningful heart to hearts and pat-on-the-heads. 

The bell above the front door opened, and in walked Makoto who looked . . . well, was murdery a good word? Yes, it was definitely a good word. Futaba was unsure of  _ why,  _ exactly, but damn did she ever want to find out.

“Oooh!” Haru squeaked, not having see her roommate walk in. “Can I be in the picture too?”

“Sure, come sit in my lap. Or Ryuji’s, give him a thrill.”

“Ann, I’m warning you—”

“Thrilling, indeed,” Haru said, with a little wry smile on her face. “How about I sit on both your laps? Then  _ I  _ will have the ultimate thrill.”

The fact that the situation unfolded exactly so and with no real complaints led Futaba to believe that Haru was either so sweet and innocent that no one could tarnish that, or so masterfully manipulative that she was a force that could not be stopped. Either way, Futaba made a mental note to join forces with her, later. Only good things could come of this.

Makoto, having divested herself of her purse, scooted in next to Futaba. “Good evening,” she said, calmly.

Futaba stared back at her. “Whose body do I need to help you hide?”

From across the table, she thought she heard Ryuji mutter  _ I told you so! _

Makoto cracked a wry smile at that. “No one’s yet,” she said quietly. “Let’s see how the evening plays out, shall we?”

Just then, the skype call began ringing. “Everyone, we’re starting!” Futaba called out, causing Sojiro to drop something in the kitchen and Haru to wiggle off of Ann and Ryuji’s laps and throw herself next to Makoto.

“Morgana!” The Okamura heiress cried out happily as soon as their two friends popped up on the screen. “Oh, I missed you so! And hello, Akira. Have you been well?”

Futaba snorted, because of course Haru would get more excited over the cat than the human. Of course she would.

The requisite welcomes passed by in a flurry of excitement, everyone happy to see their stalwart leader and loyal sidekick. They looked tired, but just as happy to see all of them. Just in the background, barely visible at the edge of the screen, lay the corner of a hospital bed. On which presumably lay Goro Akechi.

Futaba focused half on Akechi, and half on Akira’s tale as he filled them in on what Igor and Lavenza had told him about Akechi’s reappearance. 

“And that’s that,” Akira finished. “Clearly, G—Akechi cannot face his crimes until he recovers enough to remember them, but we also need to determine what Yaldabaoth was planning with him. I know it’s hard to accept, but I propose we hide him and aid in his rehabilitation, at least until both those goals have been met.”

“Fuck that,” Ryuji said, who, as expected when presented with something new and dangerous, was angry. “We don’t owe Akechi shit, let alone hiding him from the law just in case he may know something useful.”

“I do owe Igor, however, and he’s relying on us,” Akira argued. “This is something he cannot do himself, and I promised him that I would help him.”

“I, or we?” Yusuke queried from his own computer screen. 

Akira swallowed. “I didn’t feel it was right to speak for any of you. Morgana has agreed to help me—”

Here, Morgana interrupted by piping up his agreement. 

“—But this is a decision you all have to make for yourself,” Akira continued. “None of you need to help me, or even forgive him, but I will help him, no matter what he needs, and no matter how long it takes.”

Akira’s determination was sobering, and her guilt weighed down on her so heavily that for a moment Futaba couldn’t speak. But that was wimpy, and worse, childish, so before the silence in Leblanc was broken by another impetuous comment, she raised her hand. “I’ll help him.”

Every head in the restaurant whipped around to look at her. Even Sojiro’s, and Futaba took a distant pleasure in that. 

Makoto pressed her hand, being the Team Mom even now. It clashed with her expression, which was the exact same face she’d make if Futaba had grown another head. “Futaba, are you sure?” She asked. “This is huge undertaking, and for the man who indirectly murdered your mother.”

_ And I indirectly murdered him,  _ Futaba thought. “I know that, and I know what I’m doing,” she said firmly, before throwing off a little salute to Akira. “You can count on me.”

“I, as well,” Yusuke said, his cultured voice grave. “There is no honor in condemnation, not if there is a chance for redemption.” He bowed his head. “I trust in your recommendation, leader, and I will extend whatever assistance you require of me.”

Haru sat, stubbornly silent, her expression a mask of pain. She leaned forward and said, “And what about you, Mona-chan? Do you really think we should help him? Or is he too dangerous to welcome back into society?”

The ‘cat’ made a show of scratching behind its ears, somehow denoting deep thought. “Not right now, he isn’t. He was a little bit like a puppy—floppy and annoying and out of it. He pretty much just wanted to make Akira happy, which is weird on its own, let me tell you.” He sighed. “I know it’s hard to accept, but the bottom line is that Akechi needs help, and we’re the only ones who can help him.”

“He’s still desperate for approval, huh?” Ann murmured, latching onto the puppy comment. “Jeez, at least Akira’s a better ‘master’ than Shido . . .”

“ _ Does _ he need help?” Makoto asked, her voice dark. “I can understand the medical attention while he’s amnesiac, but what happens when he remembers who he is? When he remembers all that he’s done?”

“Then we’re on suicide watch,” Akira said firmly. “Igor was explicit. Akechi cannot be allowed to kill himself.”

“Kill  _ himself _ ? I’d worry more about his coming after us!” Ryuji said, still angry. “You especially, he was pretty gung-ho on murdering you the first time around!”

“He’s currently too weak to pose a threat—” Morgana began, but Akira talked right over him.

“That’s why he’s ultimately my responsibility,” he said. “He tried to take my life and failed. Now his life belongs to me, kind of, and I  _ won’t _ fail.”

Stunned silence followed that proclamation until Yusuke mused, sounding aloof and interested at the same time. “You know, there was a similar belief held among the ancient Celts. They held that any attempt on the life of a druid would be revenged in the afterlife, unless the druid had tried to kill you first. If you survived that attempt, that meant the life of the druid was yours, freely taken with no supernatural repercussions, if you chose to do so.”

“Does that mean Akira’s gonna off Akechi?” Haru murmured under her breath. “I could get behind that.”

Yep, Futaba would put all her money on Haru’s being a schemey little genius, calling it now. 

Makoto slammed her palms down onto the table. “Are we all forgetting what he  _ did?  _ We need to bring him to justice! _ ” _

“Hell yeah,” Ryuji said. “What she said!”

“Even if he couldn’t survive it?” Ann asked. “Or understand it? That’s not justice, that’s revenge.” 

“Ann is right,” Yusuke agreed. “Not only must he be out of danger medically, he must know himself before facing judgement.”

“Guys, we have been over this before,” Akira reminded them. “Remember how we all tried to talk him back over to our side on Shido’s boat?”

“Ship,” Makoto corrected automatically.

Akira nodded. “Ship. Didn’t we all come to an understanding that he wasn’t evil incarnate then?”

“That was more like talking someone out of suicide,” Futaba pointed out. “Of course we didn’t want him to go full on evil mode—we didn’t need more than one End Boss, after all. I’m not sure we all meant what we were saying, to be honest. I certainly didn’t.”

Akira gave her a look which could best be described as  _ what the hell Futaba, whose side are you on? _

Ann sighed heavily. “Doesn’t matter. I’m in. I’ll help too.”

Ryuji turned to her, shocked. “What are you saying? You wanna just go help the bad guy? Oh my god, Ann, is this the hotness thing again?”

“Wait, what?” Makoto hissed.

Ann gave Ryuji a look that promised punishment, later. “Are you saying you’re  _ not _ gonna help Akira?”

Ryuji’s arms came up in a defensive gesture. “Oh no, you don’t. Do  _ not _ make this about that. Of course I have Akira’s back, and of course I’m gonna go through with all this. Doesn’t mean I can’t complain about it now!”

“Yes, because that’s how the best decisions are made,” Futaba pointed out to Ann, who looked a bit smug. “By implicitly threatening someone with bodily harm.”

“May I complain about it now _ and _ later?” Haru asked politely, ignoring everyone at the table in favor of staring at the computer monitor.

Akira tilted his head at her. “Does that mean you’ll help?”

There was a brief hesitation before she nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I won’t like it, and will never like  _ him,  _ but I understand what it is to be desperate for autonomy in the hands of someone more powerful than you.” She swallowed before admitting, “And to be unloved by one’s father.”

Makoto let out a low growl before flinging herself back against the padded back of the bar seat. “This is insanity,” she said. “I can’t—this is just . . .!”

“I never expected you to be on board, Makoto,” Akira said quietly. “All I ask is that you don’t tell Sae.”

“And if I do?” She challenged.

Futaba tensed. Hoo boy, here came the real test of her loyalty . . . but she’d be lying if she said a rather large part of her wasn’t itching for another chance to crack Sae Niijima’s computer (again.) If Makoto outed Akechi, that’s what she’d have to do, of course. And not just because she wanted to—because if she did that, maybe she could forgive herself.

Akira made her resolution moot, however, when he treated them all to the saddest face any had ever seen him make. “Then I’m gone, and taking him with me.” He glanced up at the camera so for an instant, it felt as if he were looking directly at Futaba. “If Futaba stands by her promise, good luck trying to find us.”

Everyone was very, very quiet while Makoto digested that. Even Ann and Ryuji were silent, unwilling to  _ breathe _ funny and thus redirect Queen’s anger onto them. Futaba, who was sitting directly next to her, cast longing glances towards the exit. Were she not leaving her laptop behind, would she be able to vault the chairs and escape before Makoto caught up with her?

Maybe if she threw Ryuji behind her like a meat shield, first?

“You would also have to contend against all of us,” Yusuke pointed out. He wasn’t nearly as worried as anyone else, seeing as how he was halfway across Japan and (ostensibly) out of Makoto’s attack range at the moment. “To protect him, we would all claim you were lying. As it is, holding your silence—for the time being—is the most sensible course of action, I feel.”

“I’mma feel the upside of your head as I smack it,” Makoto grumbled, too quietly for anyone but Futaba to hear. Sensibly, she scooted over a touch, and cast assessing glances at Ryuji’s musculature. Maybe he was too heavy for her to shift. Ann?

Yes, she’d probably be top heavy enough to topple right over.

“Fine,” Makoto ground out. “I won’t tell Sae, but I’m not helping in any other way.”

Her boyfriend smiled at her, and sweet nothings seemed imminent.

“You know, everyone sitting at the table in front of me has had a second chance,” Sojiro pointed out, breaking the moment. Futaba perked up. She knew the signs of fatherly wisdom, and he wore them in abundance. Even his facial hair seemed ready to dispense info like the Buddha. 

(It was entirely possible Futaba was sleep deprived, and making little sense.)

Attention directed itself towards Sojiro, who stood, washcloth in hand, watching them all with a discerning expression. Such discernment went hand in hand with his secret kindness, and his closet need to love and care for all who wandered into his life. 

“Maybe it’s too soon to decide his fate,” he continued. “Why don’t we just take it day by day, and see what comes?”

Makoto was stunned. “Boss,  _ you’re _ ok with all this?”

“Ok is a flexible term,” Sojiro admitted. “I’ve said he could stay here, but only if Akira is here to . . . well, in a word, police him,” the shopkeeper finished, looking into the computer monitor at Akira. “But if he says or does anything to Futaba— _ anything at all— _ he’s gone.”

“Um, I’m right here,” Futaba noted, raising her hand. “I heard that.”

Akira bowed his head. “I take full responsibility for him. Whatever he does, punish me instead, please.”

Futaba frowned. “Still here, guys. Still hearing all this.”

“Wait,  _ this _ is why you’re moving back to Yongen-Jaya?” Makoto asked. “I thought you were just moving early before Uni started in the Fall!”

“Can’t it be for both reasons?” Akira asked, mildly.

“Um, what am I, chopped liver?” Morgana exclaimed. “I’m coming back too!”

Haru smiled, and it was the happiest she’d been since Akechi was mentioned. “I’m so glad, Mona-chan. I’ve missed you so much! I have this exciting new recipe for coffee I’m dying to try out, and it just can’t work without your special assistance!”

Futaba didn’t exactly know what that was all about, but Akira and Makoto both adopted utterly horrified expressions. Unfortunately, Akira’s scooping Morgana into his arms protectively made about as much sense as Makoto’s whisper of, “Not the elephants!” 

“Either way, congratulations on your return are in order,” Yusuke said. “When will the happy occurence be?”

“Ah, as soon as Akechi is ‘released,’” Akira said, making air quotes and everything. “He’s in bad shape physically, and who knows when he’s gonna remember, so Morgana and I have to monitor him pretty constantly until he’s at least somewhat better.” After he a moment he added, “Also, I have it on pretty good authority that I could get a job as a barista in my downtime. This fits in perfectly with my secret plans. Don’t tell Sojiro, but my life’s dream is to be named his successor, and future owner of Leblanc.”

Everyone’s eyes cut to Sojiro, who had heard every blessed word.

He groaned. “You’ve told me that ‘secret’ three times already, you weird delinquent. Aim higher. Do something more with your life.”

“So anyway, Akira’s coming back?” Ryuji asked, now as happy as he had been angry moments ago. “Hey, does that mean you got into Tokyo U?”

Akira nodded. “I’ll be starting my business management degree in the fall. Meanwhile, Sojiro can teach me the next level of the bean. I’m very excited.”

Ann cocked her head. “You are kind of a weird delinquent, aren’t you?”

Akira’s eyes opened wide. “Don’t tell Sojiro that! He might not leave me Leblanc!”

Haru clapped her hands, done with this absolutely fascinating discussion. “Ok guys. I think we should leave it here for tonight. We can’t really do anything more until Akechi wakes up, so let’s just percolate on this for a bit.”

“Heh,” Futaba chuckled. “Percolate. Haru made a coffee joke.”

“You are a disgrace to high-minded culture,” Yusuke said, disapprovingly.

Futaba ignored him. Some boys were just stupid.

“Will you keep us updated, Akira-kun?” Haru asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Excellent,” Makoto said, although from the tone of her voice it was clear she found the whole affair to be anything but. “I agree that we should break here for the night. Akira? I’d keep your phone on. You’ll be getting a call as soon as I get home.”

“Ooooh,” Haru murmured. “I’m gonna be sleeping with earplugs tonight.”

Really, why wasn’t Futaba spending more time with Haru? University had made her snarky, and it was glorious.

“Stop salivating, Futaba,” Yusuke chided her. “It’s unseemly.”

“I hate you,” she told him bluntly. “You are my least favorite friend.”

He drew up, affronted, but before he could retort Makoto leaned over and shut the laptop, ending the connection. “You can flirt with Yusuke later. Now it’s time for bed.”

The look on her face was so dire that Futaba didn’t argue. Her phone vibrated in her pocket, no doubt containing Yusuke’s response, but she let it go, not wanting to present herself as a viable target for Makoto’s rage.

“Yes ma’am,” Ryuji said, very quietly. At his side, Ann nodded quickly.

Things wound down quickly after that. With a matter of minutes it was only her and Sojiro in the shop.

“You’re sure about this?” Her father in all ways that counted asked.

Futaba gave him a cocky smirk. “Of course I am! Who do you think you’re talking to?”

He gave her the look which generally meant  _ I do know you, that’s why I’m asking. _

She sighed. “I really am, Sojiro. Besides, if his coming here brings Akira back, I can deal with  _ him _ .”

Sojiro sighed. “Yeah well, I stand by what I said. If he does anything you don’t like, he’s gone.” He grumbled under his breath. “Wakaba’s gonna haunt me, I know it . . .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My biggest regret about this piece is that I haven't managed to outline a Ghost Wakaba character, who would clearly hate everyone and everything except for Futaba, and occasionally Sojiro. Might like Akira, because no one can withstand the allure of the MC. Would haunt everyone by pointing out their general stupidity and would glower mightily when anyone enjoyed her modified curry. Need to stop thinking about this.
> 
> What am I doing with my life.


	4. I see he's remembered how to be angry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a shorter chapter, but it moves things along, I suppose . . .

 

Disregarding the terrible nightmares of the Dark One’s attempt to get him to serve him willingly, the sleeper’s dreams were fragmented, ragged, as broken as he was. In them are fractaled moments of things that both did and did not happen. Sometimes, he has a family and people who love him. Other times, there is nothing but himself. 

(Once, there was a man who wore a mask with a long nose, and a pretty blue butterfly that fluttered alongside him. That was a strange dream, a rare one, but he cannot remember much of it save a feeling of hope at the end—like he had made a choice, and for once, chosen rightly.)

Sometimes, he remembers who he was: a name, a purpose, surprisingly light brown hair and an unfortunately pretty face for a man. Sometimes, he remembers _what_ he was: an outcast, an anarchist, an assassin. Often there were great monsters who guided him through the dreams, sometimes into light, others times into darkness. One was a giant anthropomorphic chicken, as far as he can tell. That was the good one, the one who led him into periods of lucidity, and made him feel that not everything was terrible. 

The other one was an evil, horned zebra. Most often it tried to lead him into deep, dark pits, where he would forget everything for a time. Less often—yet far more terribly—it held up a mirror to the sleeper’s face, and what he saw there would make him scream and scream until all the lights went out and he knew nothing more.

There was one dream in which his archetypal monsters came together, however, and it was at once the most lucid and the most terrible of all the dreamer’s faded recollections. It was a dream where he did not remember his name, but the surroundings were vividly clear. He was in the belly of a ship, a great ocean liner, with huge bulkheads segregating the cavernous space. His monsters stood at his side, bloody and battered, and there were enemies all around him. On one side were monsters like the chicken and zebra, on the other, humans in odd clothes. The monsters were healthy and strong and the humans were weak, more than half of them lying on the floor unconscious or otherwise incapacitated. None were in any position to fight save one, their leader, who stared at the dreamer with a gaze like fire, and a will as strong as diamond.

The stranger’s inner strength made the sleeper feel weak, like he’d never been enough, but it also inspired a measure of protectiveness. The stranger must not fail. The stranger must not fall. The sleeper would not allow it. Every step of his own journey had resulted in failure, and there was nothing that the sleeper could do but this: aim the pistol in his hand at the bulkhead controls.

There was a moment of coherence: _Shido cannot take anything more from me. Not my enemies._

_Not_ him _._

Whether the tall stranger was his rival or his savior the sleeper did not know, but he was aware that he was his only hope. For he was dying, and there was not much time left. The strength in his body was failing, and he could barely see straight when he fired off the shot that shattered the machinery of the control, activating the bulkhead and separating him from his human enemies . . . while trapping him on the side with the monsters. 

Blood ran down his face and his body crumpled inwards with the effort of firing his weapon. The zebra monster backed away as the chicken man attempted to shelter him with translucent wings, but out of the mass of them stepped a new monster, the most terrible one of all: a handsome young man in a school uniform, with too-long hair and a perfectly polished veneer. 

His vision failing, the sleeper raised his pistol. Like a mirror, the terrible human did as well. Desperate, alone, too defeated to do anything other than fail, the sleeper fired, his bullet lodging itself neatly into his mirror’s brain. 

At nearly the same time, there was a second crack of thunder and a terrible pain in his own head, blood arcing violently out from the corner of his vision.

The dream ended in death and darkness, as did the sleeper’s life.

***

Goro Akechi’s eyes flew open, totally aware and awake at long last. Bound to the hospital bed for his safety and that of others, he could do nothing more than scream and scream and scream.

***

When Nurse Uehara called to tell Akira to come in—it was more akin to pleading, truly—he had to beg off halfway through his last shift at the bar just so he could make the late train to the Osaka Psychiatric Hospital. Morgana hadn’t appreciated being left at home, but there was nothing Akira could do. Unless his furry friend somehow made his own way to the hospital (which was not outside the realms of possibility) Akira would have to handle his ex-rival on his own. 

Maybe there was something wrong with him, but he was kind of excited at the prospect of doing so. 

By the time he reached room 336, however, that excitement had dimmed considerably. In its place was grim purpose. Goro was thrashing and moaning on the bed, hurling obscenities at Uehara, one of the few nurses who could still remember him.

“I tranq’ed him an hour ago,” she told Akira with a disbelieving look, as he entered the room. “I don’t know how, but it hasn’t made the slightest difference.”

Akechi roared, and Akira was distantly impressed that he managed that kind of volume, ill and thin as he was. 

“I’ll take it from here,” he assured her. “Just keep the door shut, and don’t let anyone come in. He’s got a lot of rage to work through, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t get to anyone else.”

Uehara gave him a look like she wasn’t sure she had gotten herself into. “I absolutely shouldn’t let you do this,” she said. “But you remind me of a young man I once knew. He had a special way of dealing with things, so I’m just gonna . . .” She trailed off, pointing towards the door.

As this conspired, Goro continued on wailing and thrashing, unabated.

Uehara made for the door, and just as she closed it behind her, he stopped screaming. 

“ _You_ ,” he whispered, voice hoarse in the sudden quiet. “Oh, god. It’s you.”

That settled any question of whether or not Akechi would remember all when he woke up. Morgana was correct, and when he found out, would likely be insufferable. Akira turned, schooling his expression into one of calm.

“Hello, Goro,” he said. “I’m glad to see you’re awake.”

“Oh, no. Hell, no. Fuck this fucking clusterfuck!” Akechi swore, in a display that might have begrudgingly impressed Ryuji. “It can’t be you. How are _you_ here?”

_He’s still in shock,_ Akira mused. That meant he had some time before shit hit the fan. “Do you know where _here_ is?”

Goro’s eyes cut from one corner of the room to another. “Hell, of cou—wait, no. A hospital. Osaka.” His eyes narrowed. “Psychiatric unit? Why the hell am I here?”

Akira glanced over, noting that Goro had read the tiny print on the equipment in the corner. Incredible attention to details as well as a formidable natural intelligence had made his stint as the detective prince believable, and it appeared not all his talents were lost. 

“This is where our friends in the Velvet Room thought it best to put you,” he answered. “You would have died, otherwise. Do you remember Igor and Lavenza?”

“Friends?” Goro seethed, having heard only choice words of Akira’s explanation. “We are not _friends._ In no universe will we ever be anything other than sworn enemies, you neanderthal!”

Akira’s eyes shuttered. When compared to the sweetly naive boy Akechi had been the last time he’d woken, this was . . . jarring. _But no less than you expected the first time,_ he told himself. _Buck up, buttercup. It’s time to do what you do best—antagonize the shit out of him._

“That’s not what you said the other day,” he murmured. “Then, all you wanted was a hug.”

Where that piece of flippancy came from Akira didn’t know, but it certainly did the trick. Akechi strained against his restraints, red-faced and spitting in his rage.

“Get out of here! Go! I don’t need you! I don’t need anyone!”

“Even to let you out?” Akira asked, stepping closer. “Don’t you want me to emancipate you?”

If looks were lasers, Akira would be sporting two smoking hot holes in his brain. _I see he’s remembered how to hate me,_ he thought. _This is probably a good sign._

“ _I don’t need you,”_ he repeated. “I’ll just scream until someone comes. Then—”

“Then the cops will be called, because you know your name, now—”

“I don’t care!” he roared. “Let them take me! I will atone!”

“You’re not a minor, anymore,” Akira noted, disturbed. “They can execute you for what you’ve done.”

Goro sneered at him. “So be it. It’s what I deserve. As long as Shido is gone—”

“And are you sure he is?”

“You wouldn’t be here breathing my air if he wasn’t,” he spat. 

“Fair enough,” Akira allowed. “And yeah, because he didn’t actually kill anyone _personally_ he’s got life in prison. Sentence got passed a month ago. Sae Niijima prosecuted—you just missed it.”

“Fucking bitch,” Goro spat. “At least she didn’t mess _that_ up.”

Akira sat back a moment, just looking at him. He wasn’t entirely sure how to feel. His patience was expansive, but Sae was the older sister of his girlfriend. His loyalty should be with the whole Niijima clan, but Goro was completely correct: Sae had been a _huge_ fucking bitch before they’d fought her shadow, and completely to Akira’s detriment. 

That left him in a quandary: should he take offense, and show Goro he wouldn’t stand for this? Or should he smother him with acceptance, which would disarm him and, more intriguingly, confuse the fuck out of him? 

Whichever route he chose, he knew the backbone of what he must do. Akechi was weak and close to burning out, but he needed to be pushed to the wall before he could stand on his own again. His pride would accept nothing less.

“I’m going to undo your restraints,” Akira said, choosing to keep calm for now. “Keep in mind you’ve been in a coma for a solid year, and may not even have the strength to sit up on your own.”

“I’m not going to run,” Goro said darkly. “I’m going to let them kill me.”

“Yeah, about that . . .” Akira said, striving for nonchalance. He hit it, if he could say so himself. “That’s not on the docket for today, sport. You’re gonna be sticking with me for a bit.”

Goro swallowed, his dry throat clicking. “So, you want the pleasure yourself? I should have expected nothing less. I did try to kill you, after all.” His eyes tracked to the ceiling. “Perhaps that’s fitting. Make it quick.”

Akira paused in undoing Goro’s ankle bands. “You’re still not getting it. I’m not gonna kill you, I’m gonna help you get better.”

“ _Get better?”_ The scornful derision dripped from his tone like poison. “There’s no fixing me. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Akira nodded, as if he’d just made up his mind. “Yeah, dying’s not what I had in mind for you. In fact, you can’t even consider death as an option until you’ve gotten every member of the Phantom Thieves to forgive you. And then you have to make it up to me, obviously, because it’s kind of rude to shoot someone’s Metaverse equivalent. Plus a guard. Jeez, that was kind of a dick move, Goro.”

Akechi sputtered as Akira undid one wristband, and then the other. When he realized Akira was serious, his eyes narrowed. “That’s impossible. _You’re_ impossible. There’s no way I can ever atone for my sins save by dying for them!”

“That’s the coward’s way out, Goro,” Akira argued. 

“Stop using my first name!”

Akira smiled. “Why not? It’s a very nice name, Goro. I like the o’s in particular. You know, I think I’ll call you that every day until you win my team’s forgiveness.”

Either losing control of his barely banked rage, or coming to the conclusion that he was arguing with a madman—for Akira was a little round the twist, he’d be the first to admit—Goro tried to hit him. When he could do little more but flop an arm in Akira’s direction, he began to seethe once again.

“I hate you! Go away, leave me alone! I _hate you!”_

Here was the part where Akira would have to tread carefully. The last thing he wanted to do was tell Goro a lie, because he was fairly sure that, newly woken from a coma after gunshot to the head or not, he would be able to tell. And as Akira’s feelings about and for Goro Akechi, his onetime murderer and almost friend were complicated even to him, there were a lot of pitfalls he could potentially fall into. 

“Well, I don’t hate you,” he finally said, deciding on being as childish and abstract as he needed to be to continue confusing the fuck out of the logical, right-brained Akechi. “And if attempting to murder me didn’t make me hate you, you’re gonna have to work a hell of a lot harder than that. Even throwing temper tantrums won’t work. I think they’re kind of cute, actually.”

For a moment both boys blinked at each other. This gave Akira a moment to examine the words that just came out of his mouth, and wonder what the hell was wrong with him.

Yet as surprising as it was for him to realize that was indeed truth, it knocked Goro completely off-balance. His flush was equal parts anger and embarrassment as he argued, “It’s not _cute._ I’m not— _you’re_ not . . . What’s wrong with you? The last time I was coherent I tried to kill you. I _did_ kill you!”

“And then you killed yourself to save us all,” Akira noted. “In my mind, we’re even.”

Goro slumped back onto the bed, exhausted. “You’re an utter imbecile. I can’t believe an idiot like you managed to not only survive me, but to defeat Shido, as well.”

That was the least of what the Phantom Thieves of Hearts had accomplished, but Akira merely sat and smiled at him. He’d tell him about Yaldabaoth and Igor’s game later, when he could be sure it wouldn’t cause Goro to fall into a flailing relapse. 

“Of course we did,” he said, calmly. “It was your last request. How could I fail you?”

Whatever Goro’s argument was, it died in his throat. He lay there blinking up at Akira, clearly trying to discern his motives. His mistrust made Akira smile. 

“You don’t believe me?” He asked softly. “Do you want me to prove it to you?”

Goro watched him through slitted eyes. Even now his brain was working hard, trying to piece angles together, to determine Akira’s motives. That, more than his anger, seemed a positive sign. He wasn’t ready to roll over and die, not really. 

“Prove what, exactly?” He asked.

“That your continued existence is important to me.” Akira replied.

“For what, so we can continue the game our ‘masters’ undertook?” He asked angrily. “Yes, I know all about that. He told me, the Bad—the—the . . .” Goro stuttered, muscles convulsing as fear overtook him. He struggled to breathe, his dark eyes blowing wide in panic.

Akira leaned over him. And on top of everything else, PTSD. With less brilliance than desperation, he kept his voice calm and ordered the gasping boy, “Goro, I need you to stay calm and breathe. Breathe in with me—1, 2, 3, 4. Hold it. Breathe out—4, 3, 2, 1. Again. Look at me, stay with me. 1, 2, 3, 4 . . .”

He continued in that vein for some time, but the effect of it was undeniable. As soon as Goro had a clear purpose, a designated command, anxiety fell away in large increments. For here was the undeniable truth of Goro Akechi that Akira had come to after his months in juvenile hall, thinking over the last few months of his life: he needed to be needed. He needed to be useful. And at the end, he needed to be praised. 

Akira knew he could do all that. Better than anyone else, he could put Goro into a position where he was needed, useful, and ultimately, made much of. It was, to a certain extent, what he’d done with every single ‘social link’ he’d made during the months leading up to the battle with Yaldabaoth. And while it had been some time since then, he was by no means out of practice.

“Very good,” Akira breathed as Goro lay on the bed, still, breathing all by himself. “You did well, Goro. You fought it back all on your own. Well done.” To add emphasis, he let his fingertips rest on Goro’s nearest shoulder, for just a moment. 

“You are vile,” Goro said tiredly. His eyes were closed, but didn’t move his shoulder away. “Idiotic. I hate you.”

“I think I’m going to keep you,” Akira mused, squeezing gently before slowly bring his fingertips away from the boy on the bed. “You are brilliant, after all, and kind of amazing. A persona-user who’s seen the light. And one of those people who are all cranky on the outside but kind of gooey on the inside. That is my favorite type,” He finished, thinking both of Goro’s prickly exterior and jelly-filled donuts, because they too were soft on the inside and also because he was getting pretty hungry.

While Akira thought he was on a roll with all these weird analogies, figures of speech, and other odd correlations, Goro thought otherwise. 

“What manner of nonsense are you spewing? You don’t get to _keep_ me.” While scathing, Goro’s voice was quiet and his eyes were still closed. He was likely too tired to open them again, or perhaps he was embarrassed that Akira had helped him through a minor panic attack. He’d also been in a coma for about a year, and Akira was frankly impressed that he had stayed awake and angry for this long. 

Akira’s head tilted to this side. “Then how about this? I’m not gonna fight you until we’re equals. Until you can stand on your own feet and live your own life and look me in the eye again. When you can do that, then we can go at it. Like manly men, with our fists, and maybe even our personas if Igor sets something up for us in the Velvet Room, or Metaverse, or wherever. Until then, I’m going to look at you with these eyes full of pity, and wonder if you’re doing ok, call you every day at weird times, and generally be like an old grandmother who, even though she smells weird, you can’t bring yourself to think badly of. Or, you know, kill.”

“Have you not met me?” Goro asked darkly. “I want everyone to die, including myself.”

His eyes still closed, and Akira chose to take it as a sign of trust, along with exhaustion. “And I’d like you to go to sleep now, Goro. You need to rest so I can get you out of here sooner, rather than later, because if we get caught I’m gonna have to help you pay your medical bills.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Goro muttered, a little unevenly.

“Maybe later. For now, breathe in—1, 2, 3, 4,” Akira said quietly. He kept up that rhythm until Goro had drifted off to sleep, breathing deeply and evenly on his own. _He didn’t even realize he was following my rhythm,_ Akira thought as he sat there and watched him breathe. _He followed my orders without realizing it._

_I think I can make this work._

_But was it worth it?_

Somehow, Akira found the answer was yes.


	5. He'll never see it coming

**Chapter 5: He’ll never see it coming**

 

One week later, Goro was released into Akira’s care with breathless ease. The transition was so smooth that Akira _knew_ Igor had to be behind it—they didn’t even ask for Akechi’s medical insurance provider before rolling him out the back door on a gurney. Not that Akira was complaining, or anything. With his tuition expenses for Tokyo U, he barely had enough money for Morgana’s cat food, and the cat was stuck eating instant noodles with Akira half the time. 

(Which were absolutely not good for cats. Akira knew very little about caring for pets, but this he knew for certain, judging by the state of Morgana’s litter box.)

Goro didn’t make the process any easier, of course, but he was too weak to make it much harder. He’d lost a lot of muscle mass over the past year, and as he weighed about 90 lbs to begin with, this was worrisome. Thankfully he responded well to the treatment the hospital had him on, and ate whatever Akira forced him to. This could be because Akira had threatened to spoon feed him as a mother would her child.

“Open wide, Goro. Here comes the airplane!” 

The ‘ace detective’ had flushed at that, and to keep that from happening again, he slowly, painstakingly, ate everything on the tray. 

( _Worked like a charm,_ Akira told Morgana later that day. _So if he ever gives you shit about not eating, just start making airplane noises._

That Morgana had resorted to this only two days later—and it _worked—_ made Akira laugh until he cried. 

“You don’t have opposable thumbs!” He had wheezed out between gales of laughter.

“I don’t even have fingers!” Morgana had said, only slightly less amused. “How would I hold the spoon?”)

The point of all this was that Goro was still a little shit, but he was too weak to be much of a bother. Something in Akira’s promises must have gotten through to him, as he kept his mouth shut, not even sharing his name with the nursing staff—i.e. Sayoko Uehara, who was still one of the very few people who remembered he was even there. He did manage to put on five whole lbs before he left the hospital, on hospital food _alone,_ and that more than anything exemplified how desperately underweight he had become. 

The promise of outside food was also one of Akira’s best bargaining chips, and the way he managed to ensure Goro was tranquil enough to leave the hospital without making a fuss. He had shown up the morning of Goro’s release with a thermos full of coffee and a tupperware container full of mild curry, and wafted them under Goro’s nose.

“I’ve brought your breakfast, honey,” he said, in a parody of a conversation they’d had once in Leblanc. “I made it just the way you like it.”

Goro glared fiercely at him. “I suppose you’ve made the coffee bland and the curry spicy, then?”

Akira grinned. What was wrong with him that he thought Goro being an honest little shit was so much better than his mature princely act? “Of course not. Coffee is a full-bodied blend, and the curry is nice and mild. See the nice and mild color? Niiiice and mild.”

Ok, so maybe he was having altogether too much fun yanking Goro’s chain, but he figured it was worth it. 

“You take a bite first,” Goro said, eyeing him narrowly. “You don’t like spicy foods either, if I recall correctly.”

So, the detective prince had even paid attention to something like that? That was kind of flattering, actually, and in line with how Akira had once made Sojiro show him how Goro took his coffee, back before he’d betrayed them. To his current request Akira agreed with zero fuss. The curry was actually mild—he wasn’t cruel, and spicy foods were not ideal for Goro’s current state.

(The sedatives were in the coffee, anyway. _He’ll never see it coming_ , Akira thought.)

Half an hour later, Goro lay on the cot, blinking sleepily, belly full. “I knew you’d drug me,” he said accusingly.

“Yet you ate it anyway,” Akira said, lightly patting Goro on the cheek. Touching him like that was like baiting a sleeping tiger, but he couldn’t seem to stop doing it. “Was it good for you?”

“Hate you,” Goro slurred, fighting to keep his eyes open. “Gonna kill you someday.”

“Promises, promises,” Akira said lightly. “You’re gonna get my hopes up.”

Goro had passed out soon after that, and that was the signal to get him the heck outta there. Uehara helped him wheel the gurney out to the parking lot, where Sojiro waited, leaning against his yellow sedan. Makoto was there as well, standing stiffly at attention in front of a rental car. 

(When Akira caught sight of Makoto’s expression, he was incredibly grateful that he was ferrying an unconscious, injured man. She was a wonderful woman, she really was, but there were times when she scared him worse than some of his more unsavoury personas. In total honesty, he’d rather have faced down the shadow Mara alone—who Ryuji had referred to as the ‘Angry Dick Wagon’ each and every time they’d run across it in the Depths of Mementos—and he _hated_ Mara, largely as it was the most sexualized and disturbing shadow he’d ever come across. 

It didn’t stop him from catching and occasionally _using_ the Angry Dick Wagon, but that was neither here nor there.)

“This is him, huh?” Sojiro remarked as he helped Akira load the unconscious young man into the back of his car. “You weren’t kidding. He looks awful.”

“He’s _gained_ weight since his arrival,” Uehara said flatly. “Try and imagine what he looked like when we found him.”

Even Makoto wasn’t unmoved by that. Her lips pursed and she glanced away, trying not to pity the man who, she had admitted once to Akira, she had once hated more than any other. 

_(I think I hate him more than Shido,_ she had said, quietly, sitting in the driver’s seat of a rental vehicle, and Akira in the front passenger. It had been on one of her infrequent visits after he’d been released from juvie, and installed himself back in his hometown. It had been raining and they listened to the droplets pattering down on the windshield, watching them fractal and reflect the light from the streetlamps of the parking lot they were sitting in.

_Why?_ He had asked.

_Because you were his target. I don’t know if I can forgive that._

_He failed. It’s fine._

_It’s not fine,_ she had said heatedly. _I never liked him or his game—so obviously pretending to be your friend, just so you’d let your guard down. How doesn’t that bother you?_

Because it wasn’t a game, Akira had thought. Akechi had desperately wanted to be his friend, even as he strove to kill him. Sometimes Akira punished himself by wondering what would have happened if he could have stolen enough time alone with Akechi to finish up their social link before Sae’s palace. Would it have been enough to keep him from going through with his plan? Or would he have done it all anyway, and never forgiven himself?

_Because I’m here and he’s not,_ he had said, but even then he knew that was not it, not by a long shot.

_I still hate him,_ she’d said mulishly, and he had sighed before leaning over and distracting her with his lips and his hands, leading to events that fogged up the car’s windows. _)_

After Akechi was safely loaded into the car, Morgana hopped in after him. “I’ll make sure he’s calm, even if he wakes up,” he said. 

“I’m counting on you,” Akira said quietly. “Protect Sojiro if anything happens.”

Morgana yowled his agreement. “Leave it to me, leader!”

“I am right here,” Sojiro noted. “I’m also not geriatric, and thus can protect myself from the injured stick figure in the back of my car.”

Rather than get into _that,_ Akira turned to Nurse Uehara, bowing his thanks. “Thank you for all your help,” he said earnestly. “And please, don’t hesitate to ask if you need any more help in the future.”

The lovely nurse smiled wickedly. “Oh, just tell Takemi she owes me a bottle of scotch and we’re good. A night to drink together, if she’s feeling generous.” The sharp edges of her grin softened. “But it was good to meet you. Really, you’re just like him, sometimes.”

“Him?” Makoto asked, a little on edge that the beautiful nurse was paying so much attention to her boyfriend.

Uehara’s eyes focused on something in the distance. “A boy from Yaso-Inaba,” she said finally. “A very important young man, for more reasons than I can get into. He had a way of . . . bringing people together, and becoming stronger for it. I don’t know all the details, but every time I look at you, I can almost _see_ him.”

A shiver chased down Akira’s spine. _A cat just walked over my grave,_ he thought. “Regardless, thank you,” he said instead. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

“Likewise,” she said with a bow. 

As soon as she left them, Akira turned back towards Makoto and Sojiro, pulling them in for a group hug. 

“I missed you both so much,” he said. “I am so happy to be coming home. Sojiro, thank you for letting me stay in your attic again. Makoto, thank you for not killing me for coming home with a man you hate.”

Something in his simple honesty disarmed them. Sojiro, who was slightly better equipped to deal with it, merely sighed. Makoto actually pulled out of his embrace to glare at him. 

“I’m still angry with you,” she announced.

“That’s why I’m riding with you, so that you may take your anger out on me while it is incumbent upon yourself not to crash the car in your rage.”

“She could just sideswipe it,” Sojiro muttered.

“Not in a rental!” Akira said, aghast. “Do you know how much that would cost?”

“You are so weird!” Makoto said, throwing up her hands. “Ugh. Come on, it’s a long drive back to Tokyo, and we should get there before _he_ starts to wake, right?”

“Drive safely,” Sojiro told them, stepping into his car. “I’ll see you at home, yeah?”

“Home,” Akira said blissfully. “Yeah. We’ll see you there.”

***

It took Makoto eight miles on the toll road before she broke the tense silence. “Do you know how angry I am at you?”

“I have an idea, yes.”

She gritted her teeth. “And do you know _why_ I am angry at you?”

“That . . . is slightly less clear.”

She whipped her head around to glare at him, only to see the corner of his mouth pulled up in a smirk. “You! Ugh. I just—are you even thinking this through? This is Goro Akechi! The man who tried to kill you!”

“I remember that part,” he pointed out helpfully. “I was there.”

His flippancy prompted Makoto into a round of admonishments which spiralled into a well-researched, bulleted list that Akira tentatively titled: Why Akira Was Insane For Not Simply Handing Akechi Over To The Police. It was followed by a slightly shorter argument that he would describe as: Your Impulsiveness Will Get You Killed, Someday, And What Will I Do Then. Close on that spiel’s heels was: What If He Does Something Even Worse This Time, Have You Thought About That. Her tirade ended with, Why Are You Fiddling With The Windows While I Am Talking to You, Do You Have No Sense Of Self-Preservation At All.

Akira brought his hand down from the window controls, leaving the window open just a sliver. Choosing his moment with all the care and deftness of a stage magician, he turned to Makoto and said, “It’s a good thing my girlfriend is all about justice. For me, for everyone . . . even criminals.” He finished with the look that he’d given to all his confidants at one point or another, when beseeching them to do The Right Thing, preferably for his immediate benefit.

Makoto sighed mightily. “Yeah, you say that now. Someday you’re going to rue the day that justice is my driving force through life.”

Akira took her free hand and kissed it. “But not today.”

She glared at him, but the touch of chivalry softened her. “Not today,” she agreed. She sighed again. “I didn’t tell Sae. I’m not sure if I’ll be much help, though. He hated me as much as I hated him, and I’m pretty sure that was a matter of our personalities. But if you’ve got a plan to help him—and you always have a plan—count me in.”

“Thank you,” Akira said, kissing her hand again. “I’ve got a couple ideas, and I know the bare bones of what I can do . . . I just gotta figure out the best way of doing it.”

“Well, if anyone can turn Akechi to the side of good, I suppose it would be you,” Makoto said, still miffed.

_But how to do it?_ Akira reflected for a good amount of the car ride, while Makoto listened to music and took a call through the car’s speakerphone from one of her classmates. He knew that Goro reacted well to discipline and orders. He also knew that Goro was desperate for friends and positive attention, and semi-secretly wanted to be Akira’s close friend. Akira couldn’t help but think of Futaba’s promise list and the way she had grown as an individual, but Goro had no such list in place. It would be up to Akira to come up with such a list, enforce it, and then come up with rewards and punishments for each outcome.

The thought of doing so was tantalizing, and in a very different way than helping Futaba had been. His navigator had wormed her way into his heart just like Sojiro had—they were family to him in ways his own parents never had been. He loved both very, very much, but in a completely platonic way. Goro, on the other hand, was something completely different. He could hardly be considered a friend, yet the thought of directing and guiding him was . . . well. It was thrilling, and while he was content to take Futaba’s progression as it came, he couldn’t stop thinking about ways he could help Goro. How to make him rely on him, how to shore up his confidence, how to help him rely on himself. 

All the same, Akira knew he had to be very, very careful. His basis for attraction was not straightforward and heterosexual like it was for Ryuji, Haru, Ann, or Makoto. Nor was it like Yusuke’s, who appreciated the bodies of men and women equally. Akira was not really attracted to bodies at all, at least, not until he was already enraptured by their mind, their thoughts, their deeds. For him, attraction relied on how interesting they were; how different; how new and strange and difficult. 

Goro Akechi was the single most complicated, dangerous, and interesting person he had ever met, and needed Akira more desperately than anyone else ever could. The thought of caring for him, of controlling the entirety of his rehabilitation was almost erotic. 

Akira hadn’t allowed himself to think of it this clearly before, but now, passing into Tokyo city limits, he admitted that he may be a little bit in trouble.

***

Goro demonstrated his impressive ability to fight through the effects of tranquilizers when they reached Leblanc. Sojiro and Akira had barely managed to carry the floppy young man into the coffee shop—closed, for the day—when Goro tensed, twisted free, and make a break for the door. Weak as he was, he made it four steps before his legs gave out, and had not Ryuji and Ann been sitting at the booth closest to the door, he might have fallen to the floor.

As it was, Ryuji caught him. “Woah, man. Take it easy.”

“Yeah,” Ann agreed. “The attic isn’t _that_ bad.”

“Get your hands off me,” Goro growled, yet his voice was wheezy. 

Ryuji’s eyebrows went up. “Man, I haven’t seen anything that squeaky and scrawny since the last time we gave Morgana a bath!”

Akira swooped in and grabbed him before the insults could get more discerning. He dragged Goro into the bathroom and pushed him gently yet firmly against the door, causing it to shut with a pronounced _click_.

“What the hell are you doing?” Goro snarled, pushing back at him ineffectually. “What are you, some kind of homo—”

“This is a crush,” Akira explained as he crowded Goro. His arms circled Goro’s lower body to keep his arms trapped, and he leaned in so that they were only an inch from being cheek to cheek. “When an animal can’t move for long enough, they eventually calm down; it’s why they have those thin chutes in slaughterhouses.”

“So I’m an animal for slaughter, then?”

Akira shook his head, just enough so that their cheeks brushed. “Breathe with me again, and know that you’re not going anywhere until I let you.”

“This is a hug, you imbecile,” Goro said, but he finally stopped trying to wiggle his arms free in order to punch him. 

“It can be whatever you want as long as you breathe with me,” Akira promised. “Breathe in: 1, 2, 3, 4. Hold it. Now breathe out: 4, 3, 2, 1 . . .” As he led Goro through the breathing exercises—and once again, he unintentionally matched Akira’s breathing pattern, even while glaring at him—Akira slowly unlocked his arms and let his hands travel down to Goro’s wrists. He circled his fingers around them, ensuring they stayed down by his side. 

“This is stupid. I hate this. Let me go,” Goro protested, his hands jerking weakly against Akira’s hold.

Akira ignored him in favor of offering, “If you can stay calm for the rest of the visit—and with our friends here it may be difficult, I love them, but they are kind of weird—”

“ _You’re_ the weird one. They’re not my friends, they’re yours,” Goro spat. 

“ _Regardless,_ if you can stay calm, I’m going to give you a treat at the end of the day. But only if you’re a good boy. Can you do that, Goro?”

“I’m not a dog, nor a child. I don’t need this!”

“But I do,” he murmured, right next to Goro’s ear. “If I want to give you this, won’t you let me?”

Goro shivered before stilling. “If I play along, it’s only so you’ll lower your guard,” he promised, somewhat shakily. “You won’t win whatever game you’re playing.”

Akira pulled back a few inches so that Goro could see his smile. He released one hand so that he could reach up and pat him on the head, like he had Futaba a year ago. His hair was soft and silky and needed to be cut, and Akira had to fight down the urge to run his fingers through it. 

“I like playing this game with you,” he said, partially to keep the other boy off balance, and partially to hide how hard it was to pull his hand away. “And it’ll be so much better when you play with me.”

Goro’s face spasmed, a flash of _something_ interrupting the solid wall of scorn he had been stubbornly holding. Before Akira could decipher it, Goro growled and reached for the doorknob, twisting it in short, hard jerks. Akira pulled back, letting him escape. 

The assassin stumbled out into the hallway, not stopping until he ran into the opposite wall. Sojiro, Futaba, Ann, Ryuji, and Makoto stared at him. Everyone’s eyebrows were up at their hairlines, and he flushed, embarrassed. 

“Does he do that to you in bathrooms, too?” He asked Makoto, his tone curt and accusatory. Akira, who had stepped out in time to hear it, was distantly impressed that he’d been quick enough to come up with something that would prove cutting to and undermining Akira all at the same time.

“Only if she’s _very_ good,” he joked, winking at him. 

Goro growled again, but rather than fight a battle he could not win he painstakingly pulled himself up the stairs. Akira, in keeping with his determination to push him to the wall so that he’d find his feet again, watched him but did not offer assistance. Thankfully no one else did, either, and they all kept their silence until Goro had reached the upper floor all by himself.

Then Ann asked, “Are you freaking him out with the power of love?”

That was unnervingly close to what he was doing, so he disarmed her with a joke. “It was just a hug,” he said, with the innocence of a saint. “Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned slaughterhouses, though . . .”

Sojiro and Futaba wore matching round-eyed expressions of surprise, and Makoto sighed as she cradled her head in her hand.

“Note to self,” Ryuji muttered. “Never go gay for Akira.”

***

After ensuring that Goro had passed out on the futon upstairs, Ryuji and Akira moved all Akira’s thingsinto the attic upstairs. Sojiro had offered to go out and buy Goro some clothes and basic items in the morning, paid for by Akira’s coming wages in Leblanc. By the time they were moved in, everyone save Haru (who was in classes) and Yusuke (in Hokkaido for an art exhibition) had assembled downstairs with a cup of coffee, or tea. Over the next few hours, Akira’s friends and confidants drifted into Leblanc, having all somehow heard their wayward hero had come home. Kawakami and Tae stopped by, who had bonded over the past year, and bickered with Sojiro while they enjoyed his coffee. Kawakami gave Akira a huge hug and immediately attempted to mother him, and Akira passed along Uehara’s request to Tae. Senator Yoshida sent a warm text, congratulating him on his return to Tokyo. Shinya knew from Akira’s gaming profile that he was in Tokyo (or so Akira suspected) and in a straggling selection of texts (Akira also suspected he was currently in cram school) asked if he’d come to Akihabara and play with him, sometime. Hifumi and Iwai sent greetings as well, the former extending an invitation to play shogi any time, and the latter a gruff but warm admonition to come by and help him out at the shop sometime, but not if he was gonna sell him more weird shit.

(Akira knew better. Iwai _lived_ for the weird shit, and not-so-secretly wanted more of it. Else why mention it?)

Mishima didn’t stop by, as he was on a vacation abroad with his parents, but sent an inarticulate text full of emojis, dancing icons, and smiley faces. Akira sent him one back telling him not to drink the water, this time. He has no earthly clue how all knew he’d come back, but then groaned when he remembered Chihaya.

_She’s still reading my future?_ He wondered, before reflecting that he was glad that she’d made the acquaintance of so many of his friends in Tokyo.

Makoto passed along Sae’s greetings, and gave advance warning that her older sister still frequented Leblanc at least once a week. They’d have to figure out her schedule in order to keep her from learning about Akechi too soon. Akira knew that Sae would absolutely learn about his existence at some point, but he was willing to plan for that dark day when it came. Worse came to worst, he, Goro, and Morgana could probably escape to the Velvet Room, but that was not a good long-term solution. 

Surrounded by people, it was easier to put those dark thoughts out of his head, however. He threw himself into caring for those he loved, and within half an hour he had made everyone a second cup of coffee, asked Takemi about Miwa-chan, deduced Ryuji had a fledgling crush on Shiho (not that Ryuji knew it yet, of course), realized Ann was going overseas for a modelling job in a month, got Kawakami talking about her current homeroom, kept Morgana from biting Ryuji (twice), and hugged Sojiro three times.

“Our man’s back!” Ryuji joked, holding his cup of tea high in a toast. “You worked over the room like a champ!”

“I learned from the best,” Akira replied modestly. “Lala Escargot,” he continued, saying her name as if she were a minor deity. “What a woman.”

Yet not everyone in the cafe was blissful. Akira noticed Futaba’s nerves, her skittering eyes, and her notable awkwardness. Something was wrong, and while he thought it might be connected to Goro—what else could it be?—he couldn’t immediately place what it was. She had been the first to stand with him, and confidently, at that. Why was she now so nervous?

Whatever it was, he couldn’t press for an answer when she was surrounded by so many people. All he did was give her a big hug, and let her cling to him a little bit rather than pulling away.

She, who was usually such a chatterbox, had little to say. 

“You’re really home?” She asked, after a few moments of holding onto his sleeve.

“Really, really,” he assured her, making her smile naturally. “I’m home.”

***

The first night in Goro Akechi’s new servitude—for that was what this was, even if there were no bars or promises of pain to keep him stranded here—he was given the futon to sleep upon while the damned cat slept beside him. Akira, his jailor, slept on the couch, which they had pulled out in front of the stairs. Weak and clumsy as he was, Goro would be unable to escape without alerting one or both of them. He would have to be patient and bide his time, otherwise his ultimate goal of suicide would not be attainable.

Yet that goal was a ways off. He could barely stay awake long enough to seethe over the indignity of this new captivity, and had slept right through Akira and Morgana’s welcome home party. He surfaced briefly to register their sleeping positions, drink some water and eat some of the soup that Akira had laid out next to the bed, and then drifted back off into the worst of his nightmares.

***

_This is a dream of full awareness, yet knowing all that he is and has done does not save him. He is drifting in a hazy dungeon, one which he cannot tell if it is real or a product of his fears. The air is blue and the bars are black, and the chains that bind him to the bed are cold and hard as steel. Weakly he struggles as the jailor comes, oozing in through the bars that keep him from the blue room, where the little girls offer some semblance of safety, and of normalcy._

_His jailor sometimes wears the face of a spindly-legged, long-nosed man, but not today. Today he allows Goro to see what he can of his true face. The horror of it is incomprehensible to him, the sum of his jailor’s parts is too great for his brain to make sense of, thus he breaks the image down into something manageable—a thick black smoke that curls around him, seeping into the nooks and crannies of his psyche just as surely as it has his body._

_Yaldabaoth croons to him of power and glory, of order and his rightful place in it. Of justice and judgement, of condemnation for the wicked and retribution for the righteous. Of love and adoration, and friends who would provide both. A second chance is freely given, if only he will knowingly follow his orders—for before, Goro had been herded onto this path blindly. Now his eyes are opened and he knows there is more than his illegitimate father to contend against._

_Goro struggles against him, but there is nowhere he can go. In this curious place between life and death, the hatred in his heart and the guilt of what he has done is like a memory. Without such driving forces pulling him to pieces between them, there is little to guide him but his innate sense of right and wrong._

I made my choice, _he tries to tell his captor._ I chose. Don’t make me do it again! 

You chose wrong, _the god of control decrees._ You did not choose me.

_Goro weeps openly, unable to do much else. To punish him, Yaldabaoth shows him things—his mother screaming at him before opening the veins in her wrists; the first orphanage with the bigger boys who had shoved his face into the mud until he breathed it in; the third foster home with the leering mother and her wandering hands. Worse: the first time he had caused a psychotic break; his first assassination; forging Loki after entering into an agreement with Masayoshi Shido._

_A terrible montage of all that he had done follows—from the psychotic break of the train operator, to the mental assassination of Wakaba Isshiki, to the cold-blood murder of the leader of the Phantom Thieves, Akira Kurusu._

No, no, _something in him rebels._ Not again. Please, not his again.

_There is a final image, more clear than the others: staring at a mirror image of himself, a perfect copy in all ways that count. All ways save one: whereas this cognition offers him a deal, much like Yaldabaoth’s—serve me and I shall save you—he cannot stomach it. The gun in his hand fires. There is a blast of pain ripping through his skull, and then there should be nothing—but there_ is _something. The world around him has gone full dark, but there is something that emerges from the darkness. The swish of a cape, and a flash of crimson as something extends towards him. A red glove, held out in a supplicating manner. It is attached to a costume that is both ostentatious and ridiculous, and yet as soon as he sees it relief warms him. He knows it as intimately as his own,for he spent months of his life chasing after the man who wore it._

_Goro reaches up, clasping onto it like it is his last chance left._

_The leader of the Phantom Thieves, codename: Joker, stands above him, gripping his hand tightly, a devil-may-care grin on his lips._

Welcome home, _he says, and Goro wakes._

***

Goro woke up gasping, thrashing so determinedly he’d smacked his hand against the wall. Fur against his forearm was a distantly registered sensation, along with Morgana’s pained yowl, but the fear of Yaldabaoth was riding him so hard he could not consider what it meant. Instead he turned away from the wall, screaming and fighting an invisible foe. The bed was smaller than he knew, however, and he rolled off, landing solidly on the floor.

The jolt surprised him, waking him fully. Logically he knew that he was no longer Yaldabaoth’s prisoner in the Velvet Room, knew he was now Akira’s prisoner in the attic of Leblanc, but that was no dream. It was a memory of his captivity, and the remembrance of Yaldabaoth’s touch on his mind was too much to bear. 

Before he could pull himself together, however, there were arms wrapping around him. Different than Yaldabaoth but not enough—Goro fought to be free until he heard Akira murmuring quietly.

“It’s ok, you’re safe. I’ve got you. You’re in Leblanc, you’re safe, it’s ok now, you’re with me.” 

That amidst a stream of nonsense, but it was comforting nonetheless. Goro was humiliated to find himself clutching to the stronger boy like a child, desperate for the relief of his anxiety. “Don’t let me go back there,” he begged, nonsensically. “I’ll be good. Please, I’ll do my best. Just don’t let _him_ have me!”

“I won’t,” he said, pulling Goro in to his chest so that he could hear the rapid beat of Akira’s heart. “You’re not going anywhere. You’re safe, I promise.”

“He wouldn’t let me say no,” Goro mumbled, his thoughts straying back to the dream. “I tried so many times but he always made me fall asleep, instead. Then he’d hurt me, show me what I was. Please don’t let him hurt me anymore . . .”

Akira rocked him gently, slowly, a soothing back and forth motion that calmed Goro almost as much as the solidity of his presence. “I won’t let him hurt you anymore. Yaldabaoth was sealed away, and can’t hurt anyone. He’s gone for good, Goro. You’re safe.”

Goro closed his eyes. Now that the immediate fear had passed, he knew that was true . . . and also what he must do. It had been a moment of weakness to cling to life, to hope, to Akira. He had to face his fate with pride and dignity, otherwise he was no better than his worthless father; no better than the misguided boy he had once been.

After one more moment of taking comfort in Akira’s warmth, Goro pulled away. “Then I am what’s left,” he said. “The monster Yaldabaoth banished, Shido locked away for life, the cabal of politicians, psychiatrists, and noblemen revealed . . . it’s just me. I’m the evil one, now.” In the darkness it was easier to take Akira’s hand and grip it, much like he had in the dream. “You have to let me atone. You have to let me die. Can’t you see that it’s _right?”_

Morgana sucked in a startled breath, but Akira never looked away from Goro. “You fought so hard to live when you didn’t remember anything,” he said. “How can you give up now?”

“Because I know, now! I’m not innocent, and it’s what I deserve!” He argued, pulling his hand out of Akira’s grip.

“Dying doesn’t make up for anything,” Akira replied. “It’s just your own selfishness.”

Why could this infuriating man not understand? Anyone else would have killed him in a heartbeat. Why had he been delivered into the hands of the one man who would _not_ _let him die? “_ I have killed so many people! I’m a murderer! I’m evil!”

“Not if you’re that aware of it, you’re not,” Akira said in his maddeningly calm way. “Igor doesn’t think that, he believes in you. Lavenza, too.” He licked his lips before admitting, “ _I_ believe in you.”

The consideration that the last man he had ‘killed’ believed in his right to life made him hesitate only a moment. Then, “I don’t,” Akechi hollowly admitted. “I never will.”

“Never is a long time,” Akira said. “But even if it takes a lifetime, I’ll stand by you. I’m in for the long haul so you’d better get used to me.”

The thought of living a long life under Akira’s guidance caused something to short circuit in Goro’s brain. Chills raced down his spine, but they were not accompanied by fear, or madness, or even bloodlust. Something about it was anticipatory, and not altogether unpleasant. 

Clearly his body was overworked, if it was reacting to questionable stimuli. Or maybe it was just a product of hope—a commodity he hadn’t allowed himself since he was a child. He could not allow it now. Without a word, he painstakingly pulled himself back onto the bed, turning his back to Akira and said nothing for the remainder of the evening.


	6. Nope, this definitely is not going well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Very loosely attempted suicide—nowhere near successful, not squicky
> 
>  
> 
> There is also some talk of boners.

Five days after the prodigal Akira returned to Yongen Jaya (with grumpy Akechi in tow), Ann found herself in a particular quandary: should she openly ask Ryuji to look after Shiho next month when she left for the summer to model and visit family in Finland? Or should she simply ask Shiho to look after Ryuji? Both would probably come to the same effect, it was just who would give her less shit about asking, and who would take her more seriously.

(She’d given a good amount of thought into simply up and leaving one day, but the whining and/or subtly threatening voice messages expected from Ryuji and Shiho, respectively, were too much for her to stomach.)

There was another issue on the table, however, and it was that which made her think Ryuji might be the more efficient option to ask. Shiho had a boyfriend—an upstanding young man named Jun from the student council who had asked Shiho out at the end of year school festival. Shiho, feeling the need to integrate back into ‘regular society’ and ‘do what was expected of her,’ had accepted and of they went on their merry (but chaste, Shiho assured her) way.

Now, there was nothing wrong with Jun per se, but Ann didn’t exactly like him, either. For one thing, he was boring and stodgy and conservative. He didn’t ogle her, because she was ‘foreign’ and ‘blonde’ and thus likely openly sexual (the dumbass) but it also meant that she had to go through life not liking her best friend’s boyfriend, and that kind of sucked. 

“Doesn’t it suck?” She asked Ryuji, who sat across from her in their booth at Big Bang Burger. As ever they were the Three Musketeers, but Shiho had just gone up to order, having arrived after they did.

“I . . . guess?” He offered hesitantly, sounding a little funny. He hadn’t known Shiho had a boyfriend til Ann had mentioned it five minutes ago, and apparently needed some time to wrap his bleach-blonde head around this.

This was time that they didn’t have, however. Shiho would get back any minute. “So, what do I do?” She prompted, letting her feet extend so that she may or may not have gouged his shin with one of her high heels.

Ryuji moped, kicking moodily at her bench on the other side of the table. He was usually much happier than this, and Ann wondered what was with him. She hadn’t kicked him _that_ hard.

“What _can_ you do?” He asked. “As long as he’s not a total asshole, shouldn’t you let her find happiness with who she wants?”

That was surprisingly good advice. Ann narrowed her eyes as she chewed on one of her fries reflectively. Since _when_ had Ryuji become the freaking Buddha?

He fidgeted uncomfortably under her gaze, looking longingly towards the window, rather his burger. 

“If it _really_ bugs you . . .” He trailed off.

“It does,” Ann told him bluntly.

“Well, I mean. We could go on a double date with them? And then I can see for myself what kind of guy Shiho likes.”

Ann raised an eyebrow at that wording. 

Ryuji groaned in frustration. “You know what I mean! If we both think he’s a dick, I’ll back you up when you tell her to toss him!”

There was the sound of a cleared throat. Shiho hovered at their table, her tray in hand. “Do I want to know what’s going on here?”

Ann smiled up at her winningly while Ryuji choked on a sip of his beverage. “Ryuji wants to meet Jun, so we figured we’d go on a double date with you guys!”

“You don’t have to look so excited about it,” Ryuji muttered as Shiho sat down next to Ann. 

Ann faux-pouted. “You know, most guys would be a little more enthusiastic about going on a fake date with me, Ryuji.”

He rolled his eyes. “Most guys haven’t spent inordinate amounts of their lives cringing from you in terror.”

“Terror? I’m adorable!”

Ryuji mimicked snapping a whip, complete with the sound of a whip crack.

Ann reached across the table to playfully shake Ryuji (and ok, and maybe strangle him a little, it would probably be an improvement), and Shiho merely sighed and took a bite of her dinner. Ann wondered at her calm. Would it kill her to provide backup, for once?

“So, what do you think?” She asked, just as Ryuji twisted free of her grip. “Double-date?”

Shiho laughed. “Sure, but I’m not sure he would believe you. No one would ever think you’re dating, you’re too much like bickering siblings.”

Ryuji looked over at Ann and shrugged. “Fine by me,” he announced before stealing one of Ann’s fries.

“Hey, I was eating those!”

He held up two fingers. “Two words: Modelling. Career.”

She slapped his hand when he reached across for more. “I still wanna eat them!”

He cradled his ‘injured’ hand. “I’m doing you a favor!”

“No, you’re eating my fries!”

“Yeah, no one is ever going to think you’re dating,” Shiho sighed as she surreptitiously took a photo of Ann attempting to strangle Ryuji over the last of her fries. 

***

“Talk to me of love,” Haru beseeched, her expression adopting that of a pitiful, star-crossed heroine. “Oh, Mako-chan, reassure me of its existence!”

As they were currently grocery shopping, Makoto flushed a brilliant red. “Um, Haru, perhaps now is not the time—”

“There is always time for love!” Haru announced grandly, sweeping her arm in a gesture that nearly toppled the display of onions. “It is the greatest good in our world!”

Makoto personally thought that rebellion ranked pretty high up there, and you know, _justice_ , but she would allow she and her roommate occasionally had different priorities. “Yes, but—”

“Or you know, you could just tell me more about how Akira-kun is in beeeeeeeddddd,” she sing-songed, and now the flush decorating Makoto’s cheeks was official. It was also permanent, if the scandalized looks from middle-aged housewives in the same aisle were any indication. 

“When we get home!” She hissed, before coughing politely and asking, loudly, “Now, did we need more pickled ginger, or are we good?”

One hour and many nagging hints by Haru later, Makoto found herself in the hot seat once again.

“You promised!” Haru sang, delighted at her underhanded victory.

“Ugh,” Makoto replied, succinctly.

“Oh, please, Mako-chan?” Haru begged. “You’re the only one I can ask, and all my dates go so terribly. You’re my only hope!”

Haru was absolutely manipulating her, but Makoto found herself melting. She was just so cute and devious—how was she to gainsay her? Besides, it might be good to remember Akira at his best, rather than he was now, which was obsessed with Goro freaking Akechi. 

“Oh, _all right,”_ she sighed. “What do you want to know?”

“Sex, please,” Haru chirped. “What’s it like?”

Makoto inwardly groaned. Emphasis on the _devious._ “Well, it’s nice,” she ventured. “Really nice. He’s very respectful, and um. You know.”

“I do not, actually. Please go into more detail.”

Makoto cast her eyes up towards the ceiling, looking for something that might save her, or at least inform her as to how she was going to make it through this conversation. Maybe begin at the beginning, and hope Haru lost interest? “Well, it hurt more than I thought it would the first time, even though he was trying to be really gentle . . .”

“No,” Haru murmured, aghast. “Even though you’re so active? I’d read that helps!”

“It’s pain in a different place,” Makoto allowed. “I just wasn’t expecting it, I think. I don’t know how else to explain it other than it’s different than the beating we took from Shadows.”

“Yes, yes, but what was the rest of it like? Was it passionate? Romantic? Drawn out and heart-stoppingly erotic?”

Makoto was going to have to censure Haru’s reading materials from here on out, she really would. As it was, her vocabulary alone was enough to set her cheeks aflame. “It was more sweet and respectful, I think. Also, keep in mind that we started things when we were trying to save Sae from her palace, and then Akira from Akechi . . .”

Haru nodded. “I understand completely. It’s difficult to carve out a place for love in times of war. And then his time in juvie . . . and after _that_ it was hard to find time together in the same geographic location. But what about now? I know he’s taking care of Akechi-kun, but he’s bound to have some time free _eventually?”_

“Hopefully,” Makoto muttered. In keeping with her mood over the past few weeks, she wasn’t very optimistic. Although she had once told him she’d wait and meant every word of it, there had never _been_ time for them. Ever since Akechi had betrayed them, they had been too desperate to accomplish other things: enacting Akira’s resurrection, saving the world . . . then his going to jail, juvie, and then splitting his time during his last month of freedom between his new family and all his friends, they had only come together a handful of times. Because he had given up his identity to get Shido behind bars, they hadn’t even been able to go on a proper date since Eiko and that horrendous host boyfriend!

Now, after a solid year and a half of waiting, Goro Akechi was his priority. When would it be her turn? When would he pick _her?_

Ugh, and now she was starting to sound like some whiny, self-obsessed girl. But wasn’t it warranted? If she was the only one looking out for herself, shouldn’t she do so to the best of her ability? She’d gone into this relationship with her courage high, and her ability endure impressive. She had fallen in love with a man who would sacrifice himself over and over just to save one more person, and she’d done so knowingly. She’d always supported him before, but this time was different. Was she justified in questioning their relationship because she hated Goro Akechi? Or was there something intrinsically different about this situation that made her . . . well, for lack of a better word, _nervousness_ a legitimate response?

“Mako-chan?” Haru asked. “Are you ok?”

“Yeah, of course,” she assured her friend, her voice a little thick, a little desperate. “Yeah. Why shouldn’t I be?”

***

In the week following his ‘capture,’ Goro attempted to commit suicide—and was foiled—three times. It would have been more, and he thought he would have been successful had he been able to move for the first four days. Shivering in Akira’s arms after his night terror, however, had led to a relapse, and Goro had spent the next five days on the futon instead, slowly regaining his strength. When he roused himself on the fifth day, he felt strong enough to walk the length of the attic room three times, and managed to go down the stairs to the bathroom all on his own. 

(He preferred not to remember being carried down to the bathroom during the five days prior, nor being held up by Akira as he did his liquid business. Everything else in the bathroom was up to him, thankfully, but the humiliation of the sponge baths down in the Leblanc bathroom may never be forgot.)

Akira and Morgana did an admirable job of watching him, but there was a twenty minute period on the evening of the fifth day when Morgana was napping, and Akira had gotten a call from Tokyo University’s Office of Registrar about his tuition payments. Sojiro was downstairs handling his customers and Futaba was back at the house. Prior to the call Akira had been chiseling away at his lockpicking kit, and there were at least three tools sharp and hard enough to drive through his wrists, or, if he didn’t wish to die in the same manner as his mother, his throat.

Goro took four stumbling steps towards the workbench, when a familiar, if tinny, female voice said, “Don’t even think about it, buster. You take one more step toward that workbench and I’m gonna start screaming holy hell.”

Goro grit his teeth. “Spying on me, are you, Medjed? Have you nothing better to do with your time?”

Futaba’s laugh was dry and joyless. “Oh, believe me. I’m doing better things atm. Just also watching you.”

“I killed your mother,” he said plainly. “Take your revenge. Let me do this.”

“How about . . . no? Besides, to really take revenge, I’d have to keep you from doing what you really want to do, so long life it is for you. Sorry not sorry.”

Akira had returned then, and his first attempt was thwarted. The second, only the next day, had involved a cup of coffee and an old bottle of paint he’d found wedged behind the back of the stairs. Sojiro had been the one to thwart him that time, stepping back up the stairs just in time to see Goro struggle with the paint cap.

“Yeah, no,” was all he’d said, and then the rest of his meals were closely supervised by the store owner, who had a mild demeanor but the eyes of a hawk.

The third attempt was foiled by Akira, and it was then that Goro realized he hadn’t yet been made aware of the previous two attempts. Why Futaba and Sojiro had not mentioned that they’d caught him trying to end himself was beyond him, but the anger in his eyes when he walked up the stairs to see the butter knife at Goro’s throat was unfeigned and breathtaking. It actually caused him to hesitate, and that was his undoing. 

Without even a mrowl to announce his presence, Morgana leapt onto Goro’s inner arm, shoving the blade away from his throat. He struggled with the cat but only received a bitten hand for his troubles—the knife was flung away in the scuffle.Before he could retaliate Akira was upon him, using his superior strength to shove him down onto the bed, making Morgana yowl in surprise. 

Goro looked up into Akira’s dark countenance, and his mouth went dry. His mind went quiet, his vaunted reasoning skills beyond his reach. He struggled because he thought he must, rather than truly wanting to, and when Akira pinned him down with his weight, holding each of his wrists in a one-handed grip, a spike of heat shot directly down to his groin.

_Oh no,_ he thought, without really knowing why. _Oh, no. Oh, oh. No._

_***_

The space between Akira’s walking up the stairs, seeing Goro with a knife to his throat, and his tackling him to the bed were fractured but informative. Akira had allowed himself to wonder how he might react if Goro hurt himself, and had never come to a definitive conclusion. Now he knew there was none of the fear he’d anticipated, just a bone-deep resolution that he was well familiar with after saving the world from a recalcitrant god. 

_This will not happen. I cannot lose him._

After the shock of being pinned to the mattress had passed, Goro found his voice. “What are you doing? Let me go!” He cried, weak as a kitten and as petulant as a child. “Just let me _die!”_

Akira felt his expression ripple, but could not tell what it was, not when he could not identify what he felt. Whatever it was, it caused Goro’s breath to catch in his throat and his protests to die away. 

“Do not do that again,” Akira enunciated, voice dark and dangerous. “I mean it, Goro.”

Goro swallowed thickly, his eyes flickering to and from Akira’s face, like he couldn’t handle his expression for more than a few seconds at a time. “I won’t promise. I need to atone.”

“Goro,” Akira repeated, leaning in a touch so that their bodies pressed all the way down from their stomachs to their feet, “I want you to _promise me.”_

“No,” he whispered, his eyes wide and dark, reflecting something akin shimmering anxiety that was not quite fear. Akira knew the difference. He had seen fear in all its forms during his tenure as a phantom thief.

“Then I’ll have to punish you,” Akira continued in that slow, calm voice.

Beneath him, Goro shivered. “Wh—what’s the punishment?”

Wanting him to focus only on his words—and not entirely sure what his expression was revealing—Akira leaned in further so that Goro couldn’t see his face. He tilted his head so that his nose brushed against the patch of skin just below his old enemy’s ear. It was then that he realized Goro was trembling—faint tremors that wracked his body. Akira remembered the odd look in Goro’s eyes and almost pulled back, thinking he was afraid . . . but then he shifted his lower body, and felt a hard lump poking insistently against his hip.

_He’s turned on,_ Akira realized, flush with warm, happy relief. But was it from adrenaline? His helplessness? Akira, himself?

He wanted it to be all three, and realized that he was in a lot of trouble. 

“I don’t think you understand your situation,” Akira said quietly, allowing his nose to drag back and forth in minute movements, just below Goro’s ear. “You’re my prisoner, Goro. Igor gave you to me to rehabilitate, and that is what I mean to do. So to punish you, I’m taking your freedom.”

“What does that even mean?” Goro whispered unevenly, shifting below him. Akira couldn’t tell if he was trying to shift away from him, or to press his body more firmly against his.

Akira smiled his psycho smile—the one he’d used after stealing treasures in Palaces, or utterly destroying Shadows in Mementos—against Goro’s neck. “Then let me lay it out for you: Everywhere you go, it will be with me. Every word you say, I will overhear. When you sleep, it will be beside me. Do you understand, Goro? Your life belongs to me, now, and so if I tell you to take good care of it, that’s _exactly what you are going to do.”_

Goro swallowed thickly, and Akira could feel his neck bob against his cheek. “You—you can’t possibly enforce that.”

Akira pulled back so that Goro could see his smile. “Wanna bet?”

Goro’s lips parted as he took in Akira’s sincerity. “You’re insane,” he whispered, but even as he did so, he licked his lips.

“But here’s the thing,” Akira continued, cooly, as if he wasn’t turned on within an inch of his life, sporting a hard on to rival Goro’s, which was still digging into his hip. Had he been angled an inch or two higher, Goro would have known the effect he had on him, as well. As it was, his erection was unnoticed by anyone other than himself. “For every day that you don’t try to hurt yourself, or escape, I’ll reward you. For every _good_ thing you do, I’ll praise you.”

“I already told you, I’m not a child—”

“And for every one of our friends that you can apologize to, and hold a proper conversation with—and not your fake detective prince mask, _you—_ I’ll give you an even better reward.”

Akira let it hang there for a moment, and against his expectations, Goro took the bait.

“And what would that be?” He asked, begrudgingly.

Akira’s smile softened as he leaned back down so that they were fully chest to chest. The other boy was so thin could feel his heart pounding rapidly against his ribcage, like a trapped rabbit. Or maybe that was his own? As it was, he had to angle his hips so that Goro didn’t realize he was just as excited as he was.

“You’ll find out,” he promised. “But it’ll definitely be something you’ll like.”

***

That night marked the beginning of them all sleeping together on the same bed, to lessen the chances of Goro doing himself harm. Goro, exhausted from the day’s excitement, slept closest to the wall and fell asleep quickly, but Akira and Morgana found it more difficult to drift off into slumber. Akira hoped that Morgana was more worried about what what Akechi would do if he won a moment’s autonomy, than what Akira might do if Morgana stopped watching them.

“What was that about, earlier?” Morgana asked. He’d been able to sidestep the issue all day, but now that they were alone and Akechi asleep, there was no avoiding it any longer.

“An experiment,” Akira said, skirting the issue. “I’m trying to figure out what he reacts best to. Commands, definitely, but whether the next best thing is a carrot or a stick, I’m not entirely sure.”

Morgana’s tail twitched in agitation. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Nope,” Akira replied honestly.

“Oh jeez,” his best friend murmured back. “Just . . . be careful, ok? I’ve got your back, but remember to rely on all of us.”

“Oh, I plan to,” Akira said. “That’s the one thing I do know.” He felt as if he were speaking lies and truth at the same time. After all, he knew the importance of relying on one’s friends and confidants . . . but in the end, he knew that it would come down to he and Goro, the way it always was supposed to be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be the happy/snarky thing I was working on, to offset all the DC heartbreak. Clearly I am missing the mark here and should just write upsetting things all the time.  
>  In other news, this is a slow burn.


	7. Yes, because drugging him is clearly the answer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favorite chapter so far. Just to let you know.

Early the next morning, Leblanc was surprisingly busy. Sojiro couldn’t figure out why all his occasionals and half his regulars had decided to show up on a random Thursday morning, but he’d take it as it came. If the steady stream of customers continued, however, he was going to make Akira go on a baked goods run from the local grocery store—he baked a little, but his shtick was coffee and _curry,_ he wasn’t a goddamn Starbucks. 

“Hey, Sojiro! Another cup of joe!” His Posturing Female Customer (or so he liked to think of her) called rudely for a refill. Sojiro sighed as put his crossword down for the umpteenth time—cursing Akira’s luck for not being scheduled until noon, today—and walked behind the counter. He was halfway through the process of pouring the brew when he realized the whole store had fallen silent.

_Uh oh,_ he thought, _this can’t be good._

Assuming he’d see Goro Akechi holding some sort of weapon on Akira (the kid was creative, he’d give him that. He and Futaba had stopped him from two, very diverse suicide attempts over the last few days, and he was not-so-eagerly awaiting another one) but what he saw was so unexpected he had to blink a couple times to make sense of it. Akechi was there, as was Akira . . . connected at the wrist by a novelty pair of fuzzy black handcuffs.

Akira sailed on by, Akechi stumbling after him, Morgana mewling excitedly in their wake. 

“Morning, Sojiro,” his self-styled successor said as he breezed on by. “Be back by noon!”

“Let me go!” His ward struggled. “Does no one see what’s happening? Does no one _care?”_

Morgana mewed something that was no doubt important and plot-specific, but Sojiro still couldn’t understand him. He was giving serious thought to teaching the cat kanji, and then having him spell out his thoughts on a table thickly-dusted with flour.

Sojiro made no vocal response to all this. As the patrons of his shop stared at them in shocked fascination—two of the older ladies looked intrigued to an unseemly degree—he put his head in his hands and groaned.

_How is this my life?_ He wondered for at least the 32nd time. _Tell me, Wakaba. What did I do to deserve this?_

His inner Wakaba made no reply, but that was ok. The real one probably would have only laughed at him.

_…_

_…_

_…_

_…_

_..._

“That went well,” Akira remarked lightly to his companion, reaching back to grip his wrist more firmly as he led him down the winding backstreets of Yongen Jaya.

“What universe do you live in?” Goro replied scathingly. “Every single customer of Leblanc will consider us deviants engaging in acts of sexual impropriety!”

For a man who’d sported an impressive hard-on while being pinned down to the bed last night, Akira thought Goro was talking pretty big. As it was, he merely turned and flashed him a wink, delighting in the way his surly companion fought for composure.

“And what if someone had recognized me?” He continued, seeing that it was impossible to fluster Akira at this point. “Then your game would be up.”

“Not with that charming skullcap you’re wearing,” Morgana pointed out from his position in Akira’s messenger bag. “And no one would recognize you at all if you just let us cut your hair short.”

“No one is touching my hair,” Goro said darkly, and his petulance made Akira grin. Everyone was so touchy about their hair—Ryuji kept it bleached, Ann was _still_ sporting the pigtails, Makoto refused to stop wearing the blend in hairband, and Haru may or may not be perming her hair, Akira had never quite determined if it was natural or not. Yusuke cared not at all about the state of what was on, rather than in, his head, but his agent made sure he always looked presentable, and Akira did the best he could with his own (natural) curls . . . but Futaba put even Goro’s insistence on keeping his hair long and floppy—it was almost to his shoulders, now—to shame.

It was _red_ for god’s sake. She was _Japanese._ How had that even _happened?_

“Where are we even going?” Goro asked, just this side of whining.

“To see an old friend,” Akira replied mysteriously, although the mystery was undone when he dragged a protesting Akechi up the clinic steps.

“No, not her again!”

“We’re not here for a checkup this time,” Akira explained, knowing that Goro hadn’t taken to Tae’s dark humor. She had done a few house calls at Leblanc when Goro had first came, and had seen him under the influence of his nightmares, as well as at his weakest. Tae never judged, but Goro did, and he didn’t deal well with others seeing him weak, even doctors.

“Don’t take me for a fool—”

“Should I take you for something else then?” Akira said quietly, arching an eyebrow at his rival. That got through to Goro, and he choked on his words.

“Let’s go, guys,” Morgana prompted them. “We don’t have all day!”

Thus reminded of his duties, Akira lugged Goro up the stairs—he wasn’t fighting all that hard, not when Akira put his free hand around his waist, he noticed—and stumbled into the front office.

Takemi Tae watched them with a shade of interest coloring her deadpan expression, and elegant eyebrow raised. Her sharp eyes rested on the fuzzy handcuffs. “I wasn’t expecting to see this side of you so soon,” she quipped.

Akira bowed his head. He’d always liked Tae and her sass. “Good morning, Doctor. I have two problems I hope you can solve.”

The office was deserted so she nodded them in. “Into the exam room, then. I have a feeling we shouldn’t do this out in the open.”

As soon as they were all situated in the exam room, Akira and Goro sitting side by side on the bed, she languidly stretched one leg over the other. 

“How can I help you?” She asked, with a veneer of professionalism.

Akira got right down to business. “First, I’ll need an array of bondage materials—”

“What?” Goro and Morgana squawked, in just about the same pitch and level of indignation.

Takemi re-crossed her legs, the surest indicator of her interest in the proceedings.

“How else am I to ensure that you don’t run away?” Akira asked, sounding far too innocent for the level of grief he had just put them through.

“I—but—she’s getting the wrong idea!” Goro argued, flustered.

“So am I!” Agreed Morgana.

“Oh, I hope not,” Takemi said. “I haven’t enjoyed myself this much since that young grocery store clerk took triple the viagra dose and then had an erection that wouldn’t go down, no matter what I did. It took _6 hours,”_ she said, her smile turning predatory. “And you wouldn’t know it to look at him, but he is _hung.”_

Goro and Akira glanced at each other, unnerved. Wielding a continuous erection for more than 30, perhaps 60 minutes at most was enough to make them nervous. But 6 whole hours?

Morgana had other concerns. “I bet I’ll be hung when I’m human,” he muttered. “Then Lady Ann will have no choice but to fall for me!”

_And moving on,_ Akira thought. It was one thing to tease Goro and Morgana, but thinking about his best cat friend and best lady friend together was a step too far for him. “So, yeah, bondage materials. I also require more sedatives to put him out,” he said, pointing with his free hand at Akechi. 

Compared to the bondage materials, this didn’t concern Goro nearly as much. “Now she’s _really_ going to get the wrong idea,” he groaned, but his tone was not nearly as biting as it could have been.

Akira chose to see this as a sign of progress. 

Takemi did, in fact, get the wrong impression. “Yes, because drugging him is _clearly_ the answer,” she admonished him sarcastically. “No means no, my little guinea pig.”

The ex-leader of the Phantom Thieves knew how to turn situations to his advantage, and this was no exception. “Did you hear that?” He asked Goro. “No means no, so the next time you have a knife in your hand—”

All the blood drained from his face. “Don’t tell people that!”

“You’re the one who wants to do it!”

Takemi sat up straight in her seat, she was so invested. “You boys are into scarification? Hidden depths, indeed. Isn’t that moving rather quickly, though?”

“No!” Goro and Akira yelled in unison. 

Morgana, because he was absolutely of no help to anyone, snickered.

“Let me explain,” Akira said, pinching the bridge of his nose. Five minutes later, Goro’s attempts on his life were revealed and Takemi’s excitement had dialed back a notch. Akechi was mortified, but Akira figured that was appropriate. His pride was legendary, and maybe these initial attacks to it would keep him from offing himself.

“I know Sayoko-chan said the situation was serious, but I didn’t realize it was this bad,” she admitted, watching the angry ex-villain thoughtfully. “I’m surprised you didn’t just lead with that, actually. Remember I _am_ a doctor, and you can ask me for help anytime.”

“I did ask you for bondage materials,” Akira pointed out. As for the psychological aspect of things, he wasn’t sure how much help Takemi would ultimately be. While she knew he was a phantom thief, she had no idea what that really entailed, nor how Goro had figured into all this. The less people knew of his past crimes, the less chance there was of someone taking offense and turning him into the police.

“And you have absolutely come to the right woman. I can get you some good stuff for pretty cheap,” she allowed.

“You’re just going to do as he says?” Goro asked, appalled. “I’m right here! Do my wants and needs count for nothing?”

She glanced over at him, her practiced eye taking in his anger, his weakness, his indignation . . . and the way his body curved ever so slightly in Akira’s when he forgot to hold himself upright. 

“Nah,” she decided. “I trust his judgement. So anyway, I can sell you some of my special medicine that should put him right out, and work on his blood pressure at the same time. I’ve give you a good rate . . . let’s say 25,000 yen? Ah, just be careful not to overdose—he’s skinny, for all that he’s so tall.”

She spun in her swivel chair so she could rummage for the medicine in her desk drawer. She continued with, “As for the bondage materials, I can have those in a couple days. Let’s say 50,000 for the intermediate set? Yeah, I think you two can handle that.” 

Akira paid her, glad that he still had some savings tucked away from their days trawling Mementos for shadows. God bless Iwai for buying all their weird shit all that year. Then again, he’d once admitted to Akira that he got an even _better_ price for all the stuff they’d sold him, and put the majority of it away for Kaoru’s college education. 

(Akira not-so-secretly thought that Iwai and Sojiro were in the running for the Best Adopted Dad Ever award, and were they ever to come together, all of Tokyo would fold before their gruff kindness, and absolute love for their makeshift families.)

Takemi bid them farewell, and as Goro had been (somewhat) well behaved, Akira decided a reward was in order. The first stage of this was undoing the handcuffs, as Goro was still nowhere strong enough to escape both him _and_ Morgana, and allowing him to walk back to Leblanc without that level of supervision.

“I think it’s time for baby’s first bath,” he told Morgana, quietly, as they walked back to Leblanc. “Do you wanna hang out with Futaba for the next hour?”

Morgana eyed him suspiciously, but acquiesced easily enough. “An hour off of Akechi-watching duty? You seriously had to ask?”

“What are you muttering about?” Goro asked.

Rather than grace him with a reply, Morgana leapt out of the bag, winding his way towards Sojiro’s house. He went with unexpected haste, and Akira figured he was either sick of Goro (which was a strong possibility) or that Futaba fed him human treats (which was an even more distinct possibility).

“You were good in there,” Akira said, when they were just outside Leblanc’s door.

“What? I was not. I was—”

Akira tugged him into the laundry mat, which was perpetually empty even though it was the only one in town. Mysteries of this aside, he took advantage of it to pull Goro into a hug.

“What are you doing? Let me go!”

“Shhhh,” Akira hushed him. “Do you want people to come and see?”

That quieted him, although his body was still ramrod stiff against him. He made no move to push him away, and that meant he knew resistance was futile . . . or he was beginning to be honest about how much he liked being touched. 

(Akira really hoped it was the latter, but couldn’t help but acknowledge the former was more likely.)

“You _were_ good in there,” he reiterated, bringing his previously cuffed hand up so he could stroke the back of Goro’s neck. His fingers sifted through his soft hair, smoothly caressing his warm skin. Like magic, Goro sagged in his hold, biting back a hum of relief. 

_He’s so desperate to be touched,_ Akira thought. This was both a good and bad thing, because it spoke of his years and years of abuse and abandonment, but was also the key to ‘turning him light side,’ as Futaba called it. 

“I hate it when you do this,” Goro murmured, his neck bent so that his head was nearly resting on Akira’s shoulder. 

“Do you?” Akira asked lightly, his fingers digging in just a little to massage the muscle. Goro huffed and then relaxed further.

“Because this is your reward for being good,” he continued, continuing his massage. “You were yourself and you didn’t hurt anyone, or insult the doctor, or even be dismissive. That was a decent interaction, and I’m proud of you. But if this is a punishment rather than a reward . . .” He trailed off, and slowly brought his fingers away from his neck.

Goro said nothing, but he leaned back, bringing his neck back into contact with Akira’s hand. His eyes were downcast, and Akira thought he could _feel_ his vulnerability. Goro had been one of his strongest social links back then, and nothing had changed now. Although he didn’t known him the same way he knew Ryuji, Ann, or Morgana, there was a thread that connected them that could never be snapped. Perhaps it was through that link that he knew just what to do . . . and how far to push him.

For now, he backed down. “Good,” he murmured. “Now, are you ready for the second part of your reward?”

Goro sucked his lips in. “What is it?” He asked in a quiet voice.

“Time for a real bath,” Akira revealed. “And if you’re good for the rest of the day, I’ll wash you all over tomorrow.”

Goro flushed and stumbled past Akira into the bathhouse. After a moment, Akira smiled and followed after him.

…

…

….

…

...

Sunday afternoon was the day of the Double Date, or so Ann insisted on calling it in all caps in her texts about the subject, and thus Ryuji found himself sitting across from Shiho and her boyfriend, Jun, wearing his slightly-better-than-casual clothes, and suffering Ann kicking him under the table when he didn’t act boyfriendy enough. From the amused glint in Shiho’s eye whenever he winced, she was totally on to what was going on underneath the table. 

Jun did not, however. He was like a walking stereotype of the goody-two-shoes student council president with his glasses, perfect posture, and khaki pants and button down shirt combo, and clearly thought Ryuji was mentally not quite up to par. 

“Is something bothering you, Sakamoto-san?” He asked in a stiff voice. Had it been socially possible to use polite speech in a Big Bang Burger, he likely would have tried. 

Shiho hid a smile behind her hand, and damn it if Ann didn’t look kind of smug, too.

“Nope,” he said flippantly. “Anyway, you were telling us about some big project you had worked on during the school year?” Personally, he thought that was a good save, but from the way Ann it back a groan, it was not the right call.

Ryuji understood why several minutes later when Jun was _still talking_ about the boring minutiae of his old student council. He didn’t listen—details were only important when they resulted in shadows kicking your asses or the palace abruptly crumbling down around you—but he did take that time to form an opinion about him. Jun wasn’t a bad guy, per se. He seemed kind and considerate enough, very respectful, and clearly was proud of Shiho’s academic achievements. But he was also dry, stiff, boring, and a little stodgy. Ryuji bet he would be one of those conservative old men who yelled at kids for playing on the streets, or demand that every student dye their hair black.

Judging from the censorious looks he’d been casting him and Ann—whose hair was naturally blonde, c’mon—Ryuji thought he was right on the money with that one. Maybe it wasn’t just her hair, though. He had been giving Ann snooty looks the entire time, now that he thought about it. That was odd, because that was normally not the type of looks guys gave Ann. Usually it fell somewhere between open admiration because she was a total hottie, or open dislike because they figured they’d never get with her. Yet Jun was giving her the exact same amount of disapproval he was aiming at Ryuji, with no real heat to back it up. 

_Weird,_ Ryuji thought. Between him and Ann, one of them was almost guaranteed to push his buttons. His odd passivity was maybe the best thing he could say about him. Honestly, he was more than a little disappointed in Shiho’s taste in men. Jun wasn’t a total scumbag like Kamoshida, but he just wasn’t _enough_. 

Over the past year Ryuji had come to be friends with Shiho and now he considered her one of the more awesome girls of his acquaintance, in a pool that included Ann, Makoto, Haru, and Futaba. For that reason alone, Ryuji felt that she deserved someone better, but it was something more than that. While he would openly admit points in her favor for never (accidentally) hitting him with her whip, knuckle-dusters, or huge-ass axe, there was just something special about Shiho that drew him in. He could only assume it was the same for Ann. Shiho was so patient and calm and kind, and had a way of diffusing situations where he and Ann might lose their tempers, or just get over-excited. She had this inner strength which had been tempered from her real life experiences, and Ryuji really respected that. It reminded him of his mom, and how much she had suffered on her own.

When he thought of it that way, wasn’t it only natural to care for her and want the best for her? And if it felt a little different than his concern for the female Phantom Thieves, maybe it was because he’d never witness Shiho kicking ass with her spirit of rebellion, i.e. her persona? 

And if he was maybe daydreaming about Shiho turning to Jun and breaking up with him right now, it was only because he was a massive bore and she deserved someone more interesting, right?

_Right,_ Ryuji thought. _I’m sure that’s all it is._

_…_

_…_

_…_

_…_

_..._

At that exact moment, Ann Takamaki was entertaining a similar train of thought. 

_Good freaking lord, if this pompous windbag does not shut his mouth, I will do it for him._

That Shiho’s boyfriend was unutterably boring was was not the only point on which Ryuji and Ann agreed. Ann, too, wished her friend would break up with him, but for slightly different reasons than Ryuji. She was not working through confusing feelings for Shiho Suzui—she loved this girl like a sister, and would slit the throat of any unfortunate circumstance that might rear in her path forthwith—but she was having trouble determining _why_ Shiho was wasting her time with this guy. 

_Can’t she just date Ryuji and get it over with?_ Ann wondered as she toyed with the straw in her drink. _I mean, we all know that’s where this is going._

_Well, maybe not Ryuji. He might not have gotten there yet,_ she allowed a moment later, thinking back to Akira’s smirk when he’d listened to Ryuji talk about Shiho for five minutes straight at his welcome home party. He’d thrown her an amused smile, and it’d gone straight over Ryuji’s head. 

_Ryuji’s got a thing for Shiho, huh?_ He’d asked a few minutes later, when Morgana and Ryuji started bickering again. 

She’d playfully sighed, but deep down, she was kind of excited about it. Akira was the most important friend she’d ever made, no question, but the ones she loved the most were Shiho and Ryuji. Although they had never led her through hell and back—almost literally, when one considered the location of the depths of Mementos—they were still the ones closest to her heart. When Ryuji had disappeared right before her eyes, her panic had been worse for him than for anyone else. She had been desperate to help him in the exact same way she had been desperate to save Shiho, and from that moment on, they were linked in her mind.

_So just date each other already!_ She inwardly commanded them both. _Shiho, this is on you, girl, because Ryuji is an idiot, bless him. Just get over your nervousness and confess your affection for his freakishly tiny eyebrows, already!_

Her musing was interrupted by Shiho excusing herself to go to the bathroom. Ann privately thought it was because Jun had gotten too boring to bear, but allowed that Shiho _had_ drank her entire cup of water in about 10 minutes. As had she, actually. Maybe she should offer to get refills—

“Sakamoto-san, would you mind getting refills for our girlfriends? Their cups seems to be empty.”

While Ryuji tried not to sputter about Ann being his girlfriend, she took the opportunity to size Jun up. Polite, sure, but it was also an obvious ploy to get her alone. 

_Here it comes,_ she inwardly sighed. _The lechery._

At least it would all be over, after this.

“Yeah, Ryuji, could you top us up?” She asked, batting her eyelashes. This made him tense and eye her like she was a predator on the savanna, and he her prey. He acquiesced without a fuss, thought, and Ann gave serious thought to pretending to be his girlfriend more often. It was almost as effective as cracking her whip in his general direction.

She fixed Jun with her most challenging glare as soon as he was gone. Better to get this over with, then Shiho could just dump him already, and— 

“Sakamoto-san and yourself are alumni of Shujin Academy, correct?”

“Yes?” She responded, a little confused at this opening. How was he going to slide into the ‘I want you more so let’s skive off for kisses’ talk with _that_ opening?

“So Suzui-san was at Shujin before she transferred?” Jun confirmed.

“Yes?” She responded in the exact same tone of voice as she had earlier. “But all of us were at the same middle school, before that. That’s how we know each other so well.”

_Well. Kind of._

Jun nodded importantly. “Suzui-san was one of Kamoshida-san’s abuse victims, wasn’t she.”

Ann stalled. This was not at all what she expected. Also, hadn’t Shiho told him all this already? Time to play the dumb blonde. “Uh, I’m sorry, but what are you talking about?”

Jun grimaced. “That’s deplorable. I truly pity her.”

That was just little enough that Ann couldn’t quite tell how to react. “Pity is not what any of us feel for Shiho,” she said carefully. “Kamoshida hurt a lot of people in the school, and I don’t pity them, either.”

He waved that aside. “Be that as it may, that’s not what I’m talking about. She’s an attractive young woman, and a very talented volleyball player—she must have been one of the girls on the team that he sexually assaulted.”

He shook his head, his expression grim. “I hadn’t even suspected until Ryuji mentioned several of the teachers by name. I wish I’d known. I would have handled things differently.”

“In what way?” Ann asked, icily. She still wasn’t sure how he felt about all this. He seemed sincere about Kamoshida being a general dick, but he didn’t seem upset _for_ Shiho. 

Jun looked at her pityingly. “You’re her friend. You wouldn’t understand.”

Ok, now her hackles were raised for good reasons. “No one ever will if you don’t just say it,” she said, intentionally keeping her voice light. From over his shoulder, she glanced Shiho making her way back through the crowd. She’d be in earshot in only a matter of seconds.

He sighed. “Suzui-san is a good girl, but . . . surely you can see how this tarnishes her? Now, I’m not lumping her in with the easy girls of today,” here he eyed her up and down, leaving his opinion on her quite clear, “But neither is she one of the pure-hearted girls one considers appropriate for marriage. My path forward is clear. Today marks the end of our relationship.”

“Would you have said it that clearly to her face?” Ann asked, taking care not to look up at Shiho, who had heard enough, if not all of that.

“I would endeavor to put it more gently, of course—”

“Because she’s standing right behind you,” Ann said bluntly. “You heartless bastard.”

Jun fixed a guilty expression on his face—and it was absolutely manufactured, this asshole absolutely thought he was doing the right thing—and turned to Shiho. Shiho, bless her, wasn’t breaking down in tears or recriminations. She merely watched him with a stoic expression, as if he were simply one more trial to be weathered.

“Suzui-san, I regret to tell you that I must break off our relationship,” he said. 

Before she could respond, however, Ryuji came back with the drinks. “Yeah, so I got you a lemonade, Ann, because I figure . . .” He trailed off when he glanced up and took in the tense faces and body language of the group. He looked from Ann to Jun, but it was Shiho’s expression that made up his mind. Rather than hand either lady their drink, he doused Jun with them, soaking him through.

“What the hell?” Jun cried, jumping up from the booth, shaking out his soaking clothes. “What is wrong with you?”

“You know, I have no idea why I did that,” Ryuji admitted. “But from the looks on my friends faces, it was absolutely needed. So here’s a better question, buddy. What the hell did _you_ just do to make that necessary?”

While not as tall as Akira or Yusuke, Ryuji was taller and stronger than the average Japanese male. He had at least three inches and twenty pounds on Jun, and when he drew himself up menacingly, the disparity became apparent. Jun backed down without pushing for a fight, hurriedly excusing himself and racing from the restaurant. 

Ryuji looked over at Shiho, and then Ann. “So should we chase him down or what?”

“Shiho, I’m so sorry,” Ann said, knowing that Ryuji would never actually act on that threat. The fear of becoming like his abusive father was too strong. “I had no idea he didn’t know you were from Shujin, so when he asked I just admitted it!”

Shiho shook her head, looking far less upset about all this than Ann would have guessed. “Ann, it’s not your fault.” She even laughed a little before admitting, “Actually, I don’t even feel sad, right now. I know this is what I have to look forward to for the rest of my life—people looking down on me because of what that man did to me. But you two don’t care, and you mean more to me than anyone else. So thank you. Thank you for standing by me.”

“Um, I’m still not sure if I get what just happened, but should we hug you now?” Ryuji asked with absolutely zero tact, but a generous heart.

“Shiho!” Ann exclaimed, overcome with love for her best friend to think on that. She dragged both in for a hug, ignoring the looks they were getting from the diner’s other occupants. Shiho folded into her embrace easily, wrapping an arm around her and one around Ryuji. Ryuji tensed, clearly unsure where to put his hands . . . but then settled on folding them around both, tugging them in so they were one solid unit, rather than three.

“Thank you,” Shiho whispered, crying a little.

“No problem,” Ryuji answered. “Shit. I don’t even know what’s going on, I’m just glad you’re hugging me and not hitting me.”

…

…

…

…

...

A week after his final suicide attempt, Goro was well enough to be on his feet for more than a half hour at a time, and had regained enough of his fine motor movements to not be a danger in the kitchen. Akira, who knew he was suffering from immense boredom on top of his rage, PTSD, and everything else, put a plan into action. In the evenings, for the hour or two before closing, Akechi would help Sojiro down in the store. Akira and Morgana would be on hand in case of emergencies, but giving Goro something to do that wasn’t physical therapy, napping, eating curry, snarking with Morgana or running both and from Akira’s touch could only be beneficial. Also, Sojiro enjoyed slave labor, as he only had to pay him in food and lodging.

It was a win-win situation for mostly everyone, even if Goro bitched and moaned until Sojiro snapped him on the head with a cleaning cloth. Morgana had snickered, but Akira had stepped in later and made Sojiro promise no more physical punishments.

( _No more, Boss. I mean it._

_If it’s what gets through to him . . ._

_He was physically abused his whole childhood. It’ll get through to him all right, but what does that make you?_

. . . _Fine. But don’t come running to me when he’s not listening to anything you say.)_

Tonight was one of those rare busy nights where two or three of the booths were taken this late in the evening. Sojiro was much too busy to even think of punishment via washcloth, and Goro was too smart to think of either escape or of public suicide. When he was surrounded by people he kept his head down, skull cap on, and attempted to complete his work with all diligence and speed. No part of him liked failing, even for tasks as simple as this.

Akira usually helped out, as it gave him an opportunity to watch over Goro’s rehabilitation, as well as to feed him carbs from their pastry shelf to assist in his weight gain, and to admire the sight of him in the shop’s pink apron. That night, however, Futaba had slunk through the cafe door, veering past the customers in order to set herself to rubbing Morgana’s head with a will. She greeted Akira and Sojiro as normal, but her failure to hold eye contact with Akechi when he glanced up and nodded to her set off several of Akira’s internal alarm bells. 

_She had been one of the least squeamish members of the team when it came to him, even when she knew he was betraying them. What had happened to change that?_ Akira wondered, and a quick glance with Sojiro showed that he was puzzled too.

“If you watch him, I’ll find out what’s going on,” Akira offered in an undertone.

“Just don’t take all night,” Sojiro sighed. “He’s crap at making anything other than the full-bodied blends.”

That Goro had managed to successfully make any kind of coffee with only ten minutes of half-hearted instruction—Sojiro had not warmed up to the lad, no matter how strongly his natural font of kindness floweth—spoke to Akechi’s natural talents. Not for the first time, Akira regretted how his life had become so twisted. Also not for the first time, he wondered if this was how Kamoshida’s Olympian ex-teammates felt, or Madarame’s peers, or Kaneshiro’s family and childhood friends upon seeing how they had turned out. They must have known their good qualities, or at least their non-evil ones. 

Haru would know exactly how he felt, because for all that he had hurt her, she loved her father. 

_Not that I love Goro, or anything,_ Akira told himself, a little too quickly. _I’m just invested. And maybe a little sexually attracted to him._

He _did_ love Futaba, however, as the little sister he’d never before dreamed of having but now couldn’t imagine living without. So, with a crook of his finger and a tilt of his head, he gestured her to go on upstairs with him. She set her shoulders like one of the doomed heading to the gallows, but followed.

Akira made a little show of settling her onto the sofa, but she immediately pulled her knees up to her chin and clutched them in a variant of her signature pose. He then proceeded to stare at her dolefully until she began to sweat.

Then, and only then, did he say, “Futaba, have you been keeping something from me?”

“Rawghrhahg!” She exclaimed succinctly, throwing up her hands in the air. “Those eyes! Don’t give me the sad eyes! Ugh,” she tried again. “Screw Yaldabaoth. _You’re_ the final boss!”

Akira continued giving her said sad eyes, calling upon his inner Shinya Oda to give them added lustre and quiver. “You can’t even tell _me?”_ He asked. “Don’t you trust me?”

Futaba’s heart could take no more. “Ok, ok! I give! Show mercy, Akira!”

“Only if you tell me,” he said, snapping back to normal.

“Aughhghghghg,” Futaba groaned, with the same weird consonant clusters that she used while typing. “Yes. Kind of. You’re gonna make me tell all, aren’t you.”

“Begin whenever you’re ready,” Akira allowed magnanimously.

Futaba groaned again, but after a few moments of settling herself, peeking up at Akira to see if he was angry, she began. “Ok, so . . . you know how I couldn’t sense Akechi when he was just ‘the guy in the black mask?’”

Akira nodded. “Yeah, when Yaldabaoth hid him from us.”

Futaba’s face squinched in consideration. “Well, actually, I think it may have had more to do with Loki, than Yaldy. ‘Cuz I could sense him as Robin Hood, but even when we were battling, it was hard to tell what he was gonna do when he was fighting as Loki.”

That was interesting, but no longer all that useful. “And . . .?”

Futaba winced, averting her eyes. “Remember how I told you I couldn’t sense Akechi after the bulkhead went up and they shot each other?” She licked her lips nervously. “I lied.”

Akira stilled, striving to keep his expression as neutral as possible. Perhaps he didn’t quite succeed as Futaba continued on in a rush, “What else could I have done? Only you, Ann and I were still standing—Morgana was electrocuted, Inari and Haru were out for the count, Makoto was only one or two hp away from that, and Ryuji was burned and could hardly stand . . . no one had any SP left, and there was no time to eat any of Sojiro’s curry! I figured it was best to honor his sacrifice and make sure everyone else got out ok.”

_Hp? Sp?_ Akira thought, before letting it go. Must be some video game speak. 

“Even if it left him to die?” He asked instead, his voice serious.

Futaba ducked her head to her chest. “I’m sorry,” she said in a tiny voice. “But at the time, I wasn’t sorry. I did what I had to do. Even now, knowing how guilty it makes me feel, I think I might choose it again.”

She glanced up at him. “Are you mad? Do you still want to be friends with me, even knowing that I . . . I made that decision?”

He looked down at her, huddling like some small, red-haired woodland creature. His heart throbbed in his chest. “C’mere,” he murmured, his arms spread indicatively, and in a second flat she was hugging him fiercely. He wrapped his arms around her and let the moment hold before admitting, “I had wondered if you’d lied when Akechi turned up alive. It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that Yaldabaoth saved him, but the dead are dead and there is no returning.”

“I’m sorry—” she started, but Akira interrupted her.

“No, no. Don’t be. You did what you had to, and I don’t blame you for it.”

She angled her head up, her dark eyes wide from behind her glasses. “You don’t? Why not?”

Akira shrugged. “Well, I don’t blame Akechi either. I think I’m not wired that way. Hate is . . . really hard for me. So is judgement.”

Futaba frowned up at him. “What does that even mean?”

Akira took a moment to gather his thoughts. “You’re not just a hacker, Futaba. When you were Medjed, you were a cracker. I know the difference—computer hackers build, crackers break. Information is dangerous at the best of times, and while you’re on our side now, were you always working for the good of humanity? Or were you working for your own self-interests?”

“I . . . Well . . .”

“No matter your answer, my feelings for you won’t change,” Akira finished. “I can’t care for you any less than I do now, no matter what you’ve done. That’s what I mean about hate and judgement being hard. I think I just have to forgive, even if it’s just on a personal level.”

Futaba buried her head against Akira’s chest for a long moment. Her body trembled, but it wasn’t with the indicative wracking of sobs. Finally, speaking directly into his sternum so her confession was mumbled, she admitted, “I’m the reason why my uncle’s debt was compounded. He gambled, sure, but I made sure he lost, and then I found ways to increase the rate of interest after he’d taken out loans. I thought he’d lose custody of me if he had no money, although I never expected Sojiro to save me. As Medjed I might have hurt even more people,” she admitted. “I can’t be sure. I never _tried_ to, but I guess I did destroy the lives of crackers who infringed upon my name and territory. And some other assholes who said girls can’t code. And—and . . .”

Futaba began to cry, the pain of her sins fresh on her heart. 

“It’s ok,” Akira said, although he did not make her stop crying. It was good to get it all out, he knew from experience. “That’s not who you are anymore. You’re Futaba: my beloved little sister, navigator, teammate, and friend, and that’s just for starters. What else do you think you can grow to be?”

She sniffled and perked up a little. “The great and amazing Alibaba, and a kickass Phantom Thief?”

“I was thinking something along the lines of Kaoru Iwai’s girlfriend, but that, too.”

Futaba managed to land a knuckle punch on him even when hugging him. “He’s just my study partner! For one class! Ugh, Sojiro needs to stop talking about that, already.”

Akira, who had firm hopes that Futaba and Kaoru would make an alliance of some sort (because then Sojiro and Munehisa could hang out, and he had strong hopes for the instatement of their Best Adopted Dads of Tokyo Club) merely smiled. Young love would find a way, unless they weren’t actually in love, in which case study partners and friends would have to do. 

“But do you really mean it?” She asked. “About being your little sister?”

“Only if you want me to be.”

Futaba nodded. “Yes, please.” Her smile grew impish. “Does that mean I can call you big bro, now?”

Akira chuckled. “I’m looking forward to it. And if you want, you can even call Sojiro ‘Dad.’”

Futaba grinned. “Well, let’s not get too carried away . . .”

“You’re right. He’d probably have a heart attack of sheer joy.”

She nestled her head against him once again. “But we’re family, now? Really really?”

“Really really,” he promised her, and meant it with all that he was. 


	8. Hugging is something we do a lot, isn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There has been some concern about buying sedatives and bondage materials in the previous chapter, so let me clarify: the sedatives are only only ONLY for what the characters deem medical purposes. It’s safe to assume Akechi is still having PTSD anxiety attacks/murderous bastards attacks, although I have steered away from writing them. In an in-game world where gel can heal: burns, electric attacks, fear, disillusionment/despair, hunger, speechlessness, temporary amnesia, berserker rage, etc etc, I figured that the characters would turn immediately to what they knew to cure a serious problem.   
>  (My game Akira bought at least one of every single item whether he would ever use it or not just bc I have preparedness issues, apparently.)  
>  I realize this is not good procedure for real life, but as I don’t heal my electrocution injuries with gel from a shady doctor from the backstreets . . . . enh.
> 
>  
> 
> The bondage materials are also bought with subduing Akechi/for his and others’ ultimate safety in mind. That will be made more explicitly clear in upcoming chapters. These materials may also have other (sexier) purposes, but Akira’s goal when he asked for them was to a) mess with Morgana and Akechi, and b) get handcuffs and restraints so that if they had to keep Akechi immobilized from hurting himself or others.
> 
> I hope this clears everything up!

**Chapter 8: Hugging is something we do a lot, isn’t it?**

 

Goro had noticed Akira and Futaba were missing, but there was no time to worry about what that meant. Sojiro was a harsh taskmaster, and he assumed his slavedriver tendencies were worse when directed towards the person who had killed Wakaba, one of his closest friends. Sojiro worked him hard, keeping him at the edges of his endurance— _brew this cup, part-timer; plate this curry, serve table number four, wash your hands, smile at the customers, work the register._ It was all mindless work, the strain and benefit all physical, but somehow he felt marginally less angry when he was done. 

Goro’s legs were trembling by the time the last customer left the store, the little bell above the door tinkling merrily in their wake. 

“You worked hard today,” Sojiro said begrudgingly. “Take a seat, I’ll get you some curry.”

Goro opened his mouth to tell him he wasn’t hungry—he had learned to go without meals, and it was odd to eat every single one of them now—but a sharp look from the store owner quelled him. “Thank you,” he murmured, deciding it was best not to antagonize him. He could put something _in_ the curry, after all, and while death was his aim, he highly doubted even Sojiro would oblige him. It would probably be laxatives, or something generally disgusting, or maybe it would be _spicy,_ like the inferno curry that Akira had made the entire team eat once in Sae’s palace.

The curry ended up being mild, savory, and completely delicious. Still, Goro ate slowly, falling back on a habit he’d forced himself into when he’d debuted as the Detective Prince. 25 chews per small mouthful as opposed to scarfing the entire thing down in 20 seconds flat. Hunger had ruled his childhood until he had forced himself to care more about other things, like revenge, and justice, and winning. He was a little afraid that if he ate all his meals now he’d get into the habit of eating all the time and then when this grace period ended—for they’d all get sick of him eventually, everyone always had—he’d be out on the streets again with no way to feed himself.

But it was foolish to worry about that, because that was when Goro would kill himself. The night after he’d taken his first real bath he’d come to that determination. Akira and his friends were all watching him too closely; if he kept up his attempts he would do nothing but make them watch all the more carefully. He would simply have to outlast them, and as he was a patient man, he was confident that he could wait until they all lost interest in him. Then he would atone, and it would all be over.

(Goro ignored the quiet voice that argued that was not the whole force behind his reasoning. That he wanted to experience more rewards and was morbidly curious about the nature of the punishments was neither here nor there. It didn’t matter that his skin felt electric under Akira’s touch, nor were important the sharp stabs of heat in his belly when Akira looked at him with that devilish look in his eye; like he was something more than beautiful or evil or unlikable, but like he was absolutely _fascinating.)_

Goro was hesitating over the last few bites when Akira and Futaba tromped down the stairs. 

“Ah, you’ve come down? Ready for dinner?” Sojiro said.

“In a minute. Futaba has something she wants to do, first,” Akira said, and like a foolish little school girl, Goro did not look over at him. It felt strange to ignore him after the last few weeks of Akira’s constant presence. If only he would keep a normal, healthy distance, Goro would be able to get his head back on straight. As it was, he was beginning to crave the moments when Akira came near to touch and challenge and praise him. Even as little as a friendly glance or a steadying hand on his shoulder was enough to set Goro’s body alight.

In the span of a week, he had gone from dreading Akira’s hugs to desiring them. In the span of two weeks, he had gone from screaming obscenities at him, to looking forward to conversation. Over the past month, he had gone from hating Akira to . . . Goro looked down at his plate. He had no idea how to classify his feelings for the ex-leader of the Phantom Thief. Most of the time he was desperate not to do so.

Lost in his thoughts, it took Goro a long moment to realize Futaba was standing over him, clearly waiting for him to look up. “Yes?” He asked, not unkindly. “Do you need this seat?”

She took a big breath, waiting for him to make eye contact before stiffly admitting, “I knew you weren’t dead in Shido’s palace, but I left you there anyway. I lied to everyone so we could escape safely.” She bowed, just a little. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said automatically. If anything, he was a little confused at her earnestness. “I expected to die, and you did exactly what I needed you to.” When she glanced up at him, eyes wide in surprise, he continued with, “If anything, it is I who must apologize. I am the one who killed your mother. I am the reason you are alone.”

He said it bluntly, expecting her to take offense. A small part of him wanted her to take her revenge on him physically: slapping him, shaking him, shoving him off the chair. It was no more than he deserved. He had killed her mother without hesitation, or even feeling all that badly about it. Wakaba Isshiki had looked very much like his last foster mother, the one who liked to slap him when her husband was around, but tried to put her hands down his pants when he wasn’t. At 11 years old he had looked more like he was 15, and it drew attention no 11-year-old could handle, but it had also allowed him to use his height and strength to lock her in the bathroom and call the police. They hadn’t believed his story about molestation, of course, but when he showed the social worker the scars on his side (from a previous foster family, but no one needed to know that) he had been removed from their care.

Wakaba had looked very like her, and thus when he had assassinated her shadow in Mementos, which allowed his psychotic break ability to send her into a death spiral, he had felt nothing but a removed sense of relief. This was not the case for all his assassinations, of course. For others, there had been crippling guilt that led to vomiting, intense anxiety that led to sleep apnea, and by the end, a sense of disassociation that left him feeling little at all beyond his compulsion—no, his _need_ —to enact his particular brand of justice.

Sojiro shifted, like he might go and attack him for her, but Futaba took a big breath, her lower lip quivering. Without warning, she punched Akechi as hard as she could, her bony knuckles digging into the soft flesh of his belly.

Goro wheezed, but managed to stay in the chair. 

“You’re a jerk,” she said surprisingly calmly for a lady who was shaking her fist out. “And I will be mad at you for at least five more years, but I can’t hate you anymore, so stop trying to make me.”

“What are you talking about?” Goro forced out between shallow breaths. “Of course you hate me. Think of all I’ve done!”

“Yeah, but I understand,” Futaba said, nodding importantly like she could actually understand the magnitude of all he’d done since he was 14 years old. “I know what it’s like to be lost in the dark places, and to think that death was my due. To _want_ to die.” She exhaled roughly, shaking her head. “I also know what it’s like to be proven wrong, and how life can be so much better after we admit we fucked up. So work hard, Gordouche. You’ve got a tough road ahead of you!”

“You can’t just . . . just _forgive_ me like that,” Goro argued, feeling a lot like he’d just been hit by a truck. 

Futaba snorted. “Uh, just did, dude. Pay attention.”

“No, it’s inconceivable—”

She waved him off. “Look, I can forgive you because you’re wrong about something important. I’m _not_ alone. Because of what you did, I have Sojiro and Akira and the Phantom Thieves . . . I have Kana-chan and Kaoru-kun, and all my other friends from school. If not for you, my entire world might still just consist of my Mother.” Her lips twisted wryly. “So . . . it’s not like I’m going to thank you or anything, but I can move past it now because my world is large enough for me to do so.”

Goro gaped at her. Such largesse was unimaginable coming from anyone other than Akira, who had managed to look past an even more egregious act—his own attempted murder. He remembered that they had spent a suspiciously long time upstairs in the attic, and realized he must have done something to influence her. 

_What, is he some kind of social wizard?_ Goro thought bitterly. Would that he had ever possessed such incredible skills. His life would have been entirely different had he ever managed to make even _one_ friend. 

Futaba narrowed her eyes at him. She punched him again, but on the arm and more lightly this time. “Ok, enough of this. Dadjiro, I hunger!” She called out, even though Sojiro was barely five feet away from her. “Curry time!”

Sojiro dropped the mug he was holding. It clattered on the countertop, but did not break. “Da—da— _Dadjiro?”_ He sputtered, looking both shocked and pleased.

“I’m gonna call you that from now on,” Futaba announced, sounding pleased with herself. “Because you’re _my dad.”_

Before Goro could see how the family drama played out (replete with tears, hugs, and promises of eternal devotion, no doubt) Akira pulled him up from his seat and towards the stairs. “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s leave them to it.”

Rather than fight him, Goro followed on his own. He had little desire to see Futaba and Sojiro cement the bonds of their familial relationship. He’d never experienced such a thing, why should he watch others enjoy have what he never could?

He was in a poor mood when they reached the attic, but Akira blew that all away with a warm smile. Goro’s stomach felt like mush when Akira said, “I’m proud of you.”

“For what?” Goro said tiredly. He knew better than to argue against Akira’s nonsense. It was also getting progressively more difficult to ignore the flush of all-encompassing warmth that accompanied Akira’s complete and positive attention. 

It was akin yet different than the way he had felt whenever Shido had praised him, Goro was aware of that much. With his illegitimate father, each happy moment had been lined with shards of glass, and Goro had suffered through many stings. With Akira, however, there were no dark awareness shadowing these moments. Goro could feel it though their bond: Akira meant every syllable of it, he had been honest with him every step of the way, even when both of them had been talking around the other in circles. 

Compliments from both had the power to unman him, however, and make him act contrary to how he wished to be. That Akira’s attempts were more physically pleasant was just a fluke. _I must be some sort of praise addict,_ Goro tried to reason. _What else could it be? Happiness addict? Akira addict?_

_No, no. Anything but that._ _Not_ that _, not on top of everything else that is wrong with me. I’ve never liked anyone in my life. I cannot start here and now . . . with_ him. 

But would it be so wrong, when held up against all his other sins? 

“You’re thinking real hard on your own again,” Akira chided him gently. “There will be time for that later. For now, I want you here with me. Can you focus on that for a sec?”

Goro flushed. “I apologize. I just—”

Akira smiled. “I know. You tend to go off on tangents, even in your own head. Must be a pretty fascinating place in there, huh?”

“Less so than you’d think,” Goro said bitterly. “It’s the repository of all my memories and poor decisions, after all.”

“Hmm. And on that note,” Akira stepped forward, slipping his arms around Goro. Full on embraces were not as numerous as other, lesser forms of physical contact, but it had happened often enough that Goro no longer tried to fight him off. Yet neither would he sag into his touch like some love-struck heroine. Whatever his body’s reactions to Akira’s, it was nothing that he chose.

“I have this thing with Futaba called a promise list,” Akira began, speaking quietly, right by his ear. “She picks hard things to do, and every time she completes something on the list, I give her a reward: whether a pat on the head, or ice cream, or an evening out in Akihabara to stock up on gaming supplies. That is, in essence, what I’m doing with you.”

Goro had no experience holding women or men, but with Akira’s body pressed against his, he was struck by how perfectly they slotted together. He was an inch or so taller than Akira—both were surprisingly tall for Japanese males, in general—and he couldn’t imagine that he’d fit so perfectly with a woman. Too small and fragile for him, and even the thought of holding Makoto Niijima, who was undoubtedly a physically powerful young woman, was stomach-turning. 

Akira’s being so close to him was not. If anything, it made him want to press more tightly against him, pull him closer. Recognizing this, he protected himself with his acerbic tongue. “So instead of ice cream, I get _this?”_

Without letting go, Akira pulled back enough so that Goro could see his grin. “Hugging is something we do a lot, isn’t it?”

Goro sneered. “Feel free to stop whenever you wish, you imbecile.”

Akira’s smile grew a sharp edge, and something swooped low in Goro’s stomach. What was wrong with him that the threat of violence made his body tingle? In a move that then made him freeze, the ex-phantom thief leaned forward, resting his forehead on Goro’s. 

“Breathe with me again,” he invited, and rather than fight him or figure out what the hell was going on, Goro found himself obeying the order. His anxiety calmed in degrees, more quickly and noticeably than it had when he’d first done this in the hospital. Akira had talked him through three panic attacks over the last several weeks, and by now Goro could admit to himself that Akira’s presence made everything more bearable. Not only could he talk Goro’s body into relaxing, but it felt like his mind was opening up, as well. Before he had felt his connection to him at certain odd moments—almost all dialogue driven, and at key moments across their acquaintanceship. It had felt as if their connection was cementing in steps, and by the time he had aimed his weapon at Akira in his cognition of the interrogation room, only years of desperation and determination kept him from faltering. 

He had not wanted to pull the trigger. He had never regretted anything else half as much.

The connection was so much more clear now. The bond that thrummed between them was nearly as tangible as their physical connection when they were like this, and Goro could almost _feel_ the change Akira was trying to work in him.

_Anything he tells me to do I shall do,_ he realized. _I need someone’s instructions more than I need justice. I truly am nothing more than a lapdog!_

But Akira’s directions were not like Shido’s or Yaldabaoth’s. Akira was goodness incarnate, and everything Goro had once wanted to be. He even entertained a small, niggling hope that in following his commands he would learn to be better, himself. But that was impossible for someone as tarnished as he. No, it was better to not given into hope. He was merely biding his time, playing Akira’s game all while waiting for a chance to kill himself. 

Until then, however, couldn’t he enjoy this?

He enjoyed this too much, he realized, as shivers erupted when Akira’s breath ghosted over his cheek. He wanted to press forward so that their bodies touched the way they had the other night. Further denials were pointless. Even though he had never before done so, he wanted to lean forward and tilt his mouth and kiss him. The mere thought sent lightning down to his belly, and his cock, plump with interest, hung heavy between his legs. 

Akira pulled back and Goro’s stomach filled with ice. Had he felt his arousal? Did he _know?_ But Akira’s smile was too warm to be offended, and there was still something intimate in his expression. Before Goro could salvage the situation, he leaned forward and kissed Goro’s forehead, pressing firmly, lips lingering.

His mind went blank. The air punched out of his lungs, and only when Akira tried to step back did he realize he’d grabbed Akira’s sleeves, knuckles white with the effort of keeping the younger man close.

“That’s one,” Akira said. “And the rewards will get better with every victory. Think about what you want for the next thief that forgives you. If it’s in my power, I’ll make sure you get it.”

_I want you,_ Goro thought in a moment of brutal honesty. Accepting something privately and actually asking for it were two entirely different things, however, so he closed his eyes, and like a traitor, nodded his assent without wanting to. 

…

…

…

…

...

After Futaba had eaten dinner with Sojiro—not to mention affirmed her familial bond with, nor walked home—she began a group chat that was, save for its beginning, fairly reminiscent of all group text chats happening at the time:

 

**Futaba—I did it! I forgave him!**

**Futaba—I feel like a goddamned saint!**

**Ann—Wait, what?**

**Haru—Congratulations! Are we talking about Sojiro, or Akira, or even that handsome young man who you study with in the cafe?**

**Yusuke—If by ‘saint’ you mean purveyor of perverse and culturally inappropriate television shows . . .**

**Futaba—Shut up, Inari**

**Ryuji—Ok, wait. What did Futaba do now?**

**Futaba—Shut up, Ryuji!**

**Makoto—Everyone, settle down. Futaba, are congratulations in order?**

**Haru—Well I already did that part . . .**

**Futaba—You tell me. I just had a heart to heart with the Gordouche. His heart may have grown three sizes, this day.**

**Ann—Woah. That’s just . . . woah.**

**Yusuke—Ugh. Congratulations *are* in order then, aren’t they?**

**Haru— . . .**

**Ryuji—Damn it, Futaba! Now Akira’s gonna make us all do that!**

**Haru—Over Akechi’s dead body.**

**Ann—Um, Haru? Don’t you mean yours?**

**Haru—No.**

**Makoto—Again, let’s keep calm, everyone. Futaba, what exactly happened?**

**Futaba—We talked it out. I admitted things. He admitted things. Then I got to punch him in the stomach.**

**Ryuji—I can do that part.**

**Haru—May I be holding a knife at the time?**

**Ann—Guys . . .**

**Futaba—And then it was like a huge weight just LEAPT OFF MY SHOULDERS. Oh woah, capslock. Anyways, feel great now. Totally recommend the experience.**

**Ryuji—Pass.**

**Haru—Pass.**

**Yusuke—I’m not going to congratulate you on your surprisingly mature and well-reasoned decision.**

**Ann—Um. You just did?**

**Makoto—Futaba, well done on handling a difficult situation. I can only hope Akechi does not make you regret it. What did Akira have to say?**

**Ryuji—Yeah, where is he? Why’s he not responding to the 2000 texts he’s received by now?**

**Ann—Probably overwhelmed. Remember the last time we spammed him? He didn’t text us socially for _days._**

**Futaba—Uh, Idk actually. I went home with Dadjiro. Akira took Gordouche upstairs when things got emotional.**

**Makoto—Things . . . got . . . emotional?**

**Ann—Oh, no. Ohhhhhh no.**

**Yusuke— _Dadjiro?_**

**Futaba—Oh yeah. I’m calling him dad, now. Or, you know. Dadjiro. It’s a thing. He got a little teary-eyed when I dropped it on him, so big-bro herded the G upstairs.**

**Yusuke—Are you in some sort of gang? What language is this, young lady?**

**Haru—Oh, I don’t know. I think it’s quaint and delightful!**

**Makoto—I see. The moment wasn’t between Akira and Akechi. Sorry, I must have misunderstood.**

**Ryuji—Misunderstood what?**

**Makoto—Nothing. Never mind.**

**Ann—Maybe we should try and talk to him. I mean, it’s not like he’s going away any time soon. We have to come to terms with this.**

**Yusuke—Agreed.**

**Futaba—Got you beat, there!**

**Ryuji—If I say no, are you gonna take me out with your whip?**

**Ann—Do you really have to ask?**

**Ryuji— . . . I’ll think about it.**

**Haru—May I take him out with *my* whip?**

**Ryuji—You have a whip?!**

**Ann—You have one too?!**

**Makoto—Look, we all have to come to a personal determination whether we forgive Akechi or not, just as Akira will have to decide what to do with him in the long run. Until that happens . . . well. We’re all adults. We know what’s at stake.**

**Makoto—Oh, and . . . Haru does have a whip. Do not ask.**

**Haru—Teehee!**

 

**…**

**…**

**…**

**…**

**...**

The night that Futaba forgave Akechi and thus he earned his first reward, Akira and Morgana lay awake on the futon, whispering to each other in the dark. Akechi was asleep, judging by the slow, even tempo of his breathing, and the way that his left leg would jerk ever so slightly at odd moments. This was something they had learned he did only when in deep, dreaming sleep, and while Akira didn’t hold out much hope that he was currently undergoing anything more pleasant than a nightmare, it did give Morgana plenty of time to grill him about the excitement from earlier that day.

“So, I couldn’t help but notice that you guys are kissing now,” Morgana hissed. “What _was_ that? And why is it happening?”

“It’s not nearly as sordid as you’re making it seem,” Akira said mildly. “Seeing as how he never received any signs of affection growing up, parental or familial, one might argue it’s long overdue, as well.”

“It’s giving me the wrong idea again! Do you even know what you’re doing?”

“Not entirely,” Akira admitted. “But it’s working. See how much calmer he’s gotten? Soon we might not even need to sleep in the same bed, anymore.”

“Yeah, but I think he likes that part,” Morgana growled, and continued on only half serious with, “And I think you do too.”

“It’s all chaste. No different than when I’m with Futaba.”

“It’s way different than with Futaba!” Morgana argued, back arching slightly with emotion. “And the fact that you’re aware enough to ‘keep it chaste’ means you know it has the potential _not_ to be.” He sighed, a rumbling purr. “What’s going on here, Akira? Should Makoto be worried about this?”

“No,” he replied without hesitation but with a quick glance over the calm set of Akechi’s sleeping face. “Goro’s not like that. It’s fine.”

“Goro’s not . . . but you are?” Morgana yelped, quietly.

Akira glanced over at Morgana, giving him a wry smile. “It’s not the body that excites me, but if you had to pin me down, I guess I’d say I’m bisexual.”

Morgana stood at full attention, his fur on end. “What? When did happen?”

Akira frowned at him. “I’ve always been this way. Thinking logically, how could I not be? Part of my being the Trickster wildcard is that I can see shadows, personas, and people clearly. If I can look past the outward illusions used to twist or obscure one’s true self, why should gender matter to me, sexually or romantically?”

It took several tries for Morgana to spit out his next sentence. “What—how—but that’s not the same thing . . .” He shook his kitty head before exclaiming, “Outward illusions . . . when did you become the Buddha?”

Akira cracked a grin. “Shall I recite mantras for you? I know some after taking Yusuke and Ann and half of the people I know to the Meiji Shrine.”

“Akira, focus,” Morgana growled. “I am trying to wrap my head around my best friend’s sexual identity. Help me out, here.”

Akira’s smile died away. “Is it so hard to accept? Even from the anthropomorphic representation of humanity’s hope?”

Morgana padded around in tight, agitated circles, careful not to leap around and potentially wake Goro. “Not personally! But even I know it’s hard to be that way here. It’s hard to be that way _period._ Just be careful, ok? And keep your eyes on the prize. I’m going to be so mad at you if you fall in love with Akechi. Just don’t. It will only end in tears.”

“There is a big leap from bisexuality to falling in love with the man who tried to kill me,” Akira pointed out. 

“You’ve forgiven him that already. What’s to stop you from going further?” Morgana pointed out, unfairly in Akira’s opinion. Not least because it was a very insightful question, and one he was already struggling with.

“Makoto,” he pointed out. “My girlfriend. Remember her?”

“That is true,” Morgana mrowled his assent. “She would kill you if you did anything inappropriate.” 

After another shifty side glance or two, he curled up on himself for a night’s rest. Akira, who was now lying between his feline friend and the object of his recently awakened desires, found himself at leisure to consider at length the ramifications of his realization. He had underplayed his attraction to Akechi, and for strategic reasons. If anyone in their group knew he was attracted to him, they would take Goro away from him and then lock him in a room for Makoto to beat some sense into. To Morgana, the one he trusted most, he would at least put the cat on the roof—to quote an American joke he rather liked—but in the privacy of his own mind he would do more. He was more than simply aware of Akechi, he had never before been this desperately attracted to anyone. He had never dreamed of anyone with this much raw hatred and passion, someone who was brilliant yet twisted, so capable yet lost. 

No one had never needed him this badly, and he might never want anyone more.

_I may be in trouble,_ he allowed. _Both the Niijima’s are going to kill me._

 

…

…

…

…

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hiatus, all. Kind of lost the vibe for a bit, and began working way harder on my non-fanfic. Back now, though. Let’s see if I can get a couple chapters in reserve!


	9. Punishment is punishment, but boners are boners

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a short one, but I have not updated in months because I am a bad person...so here it is.

**Chapter 9: Punishment is punishment, but boners are boners.**

 

Makoto was going to kill Akira.

She had reorganized her entire schedule, begged off shifts at work, and studied all through last night just to have enough time for a nice dinner with her boyfriend . . . and _this_ was how he repaid her? It would have been better if he’d blown her off!

Her ire began to brew the moment she caught sight of him from across the restaurant, but it built with every step she took in his— _their—_ direction. When she was only a few steps away from their table, her soon-to-be-dead-boyfriend caught sight of her and smiled up at her beatifically, like there was absolutely nothing wrong with his current arrangement.

“What is this?” She ground out as she took her seat, although from the look of things she might not want to know the answer.

Akira’s smile did not waver as he gestured with his left hand, which was encircled by a fuzzy black handcuff, the likes of which one might see in a naughty magazine. Attached by his right wrist was Goro Akechi, who looked just as upset about this as she was, but somewhat more resigned.

Resigned! Like this was a thing that happened often!

“I brought a guest for dinner. I hope you don’t mind.”

Mind? _Mind?_ She sure as hell minded, but at this point Makoto was unsure what she minded more: that she was being subjected to Akechi’s presence, or that they were wandering around Tokyo openly handcuffed to each other. Her only consolation was that Akechi looked humiliated. Because they’d always known he was out to betray them, he had never been subject to the full force of Akira’s quietly determined personality. In the face of it, people found themselves doing amazing things, and Haru had once or twice remarked that she suspected Akira didn’t even have to enter Mementos to change people’s hearts.

Whether it was due to Akira’s personality or some other reason, Akechi was miserable and helpless in Akira’s hold. As long as she kept sight of that, Makoto thought she could make it through tonight’s dinner. His pain was something akin to pleasure to her and she rationalized this dark impulse by believing that Akechi was beyond redemption. He’d had his chance and he’d picked killing Akira over staying with them and helping them enact justice on his illegitimate father. That he’d chosen to save them later was not enough to sway her around. He could have re-joined them _then_ , but he’d chosen to die, instead. All he would have had to do was to take two steps forward and _then_ shoot the bulkhead controls.

But he hadn’t, and Makoto didn’t believe in third chances. Not with someone like Goro Akechi.

Makoto sat down, smoothing her skirt. “Have you ordered?” She said instead, and took a grim delight in how both men at the table leaned back a little. Good. They should fear her. Her wrath was mighty.

The atmosphere did not improve as the dinner wore on. While they had made it unto the delivery of said meals by relying on Akira’s strained attempts at conversation, and Makoto’s pointedly ignoring Akechi’s silence, no one had taken more than a few bites of their dinner before Makoto laid down her fork and directed her full attention to the ex-detective prince.

“There’s been a lot of discussion about how and why your life was spared, but I’ve yet to hear from you. Why do _you_ think that Igor wants you alive?”

“That is a very good question,” Akechi murmured darkly. “One that even I do not have the answer to.”

“Um, I have an answer to that,” Akira offered. “Pick me, pick me.”

“You have a supposition,” Makoto corrected. “You don’t know Igor’s reasoning, or if it is correct.”

Akira frowned at her, which was the harshest condemnation she would receive when they were out in public. Makoto felt a spasm of guilt, but did not relent. While she knew Akira trusted Igor implicitly, she did not have his bond to the mysterious long nosed man, nor had she been summoned to the Velvet Room to hear his plea to care for Goro Akechi. She needed the facts, and she needed them in an understandable manner. That was simply who she was, and how she handled things.

“Perhaps this is not for me at all but a test for Akira to see if he is _good_ enough to transform his nemesis. ” Akechi said, glancing at Akira with a dark look on his face. “He must find you saintly indeed.”

“Or perhaps he believes in you,” Akira said, cutting his eyes towards Akechi. “Perhaps he sees what you could become.”

“Doubtful,” Makoto said without thinking. “We’ve already know what he’s capable of. The best he can do is make some amends for what he’s done. I doubt there will be any good coming out of him in the future.”

Akechi’s lips twisted in a sneer. “Oh, Sae-san, won’t you let Makoto come out to play?” He asked mockingly. “I’m fairly sure Akira likes her much better.”

“Don’t tell me what my boyfriend prefers,” she said, the light of battle in her eye. “I’m doing this for him!”

“I am sitting right here,” Akira pointed out. “I am present and engaged in this conversation. Talking about me as if I am not is a little counterintuitive.”

“You’re also the one who got us into this mess!” Makoto hissed at him, her anger flaring at how damned _calm_ Akira was being. “You’re the one that trusts _him!”_

“And that is a mistake,” Akechi said, his lips curving into a pained, self-deprecating grin.“He should do nothing of the sort. I am worth less than the trash that litters the street. As soon as he realizes that, you’ll have him back.”

Makoto frowned at the odd way he’d phrased that—they weren’t fighting over him romantically, or at least, they had _better not be_ —but before she could express her confusion or ask for clarification, Akira turned his entire body and pulled on the handcuff so that they were facing each other.

“I don’t want you to talk about yourself like that,” he said. “It’s not good for your rehabilitation.”

“You know what I think of your efforts to ‘rehabilitate’ me,” Akechi argued, his eyes skittering over Akira’s face, having trouble holding his gaze.

Akira shook his head slowly, and Makoto’s stomach dropped at the look of utter seriousness on his face. “If you bring yourself down again, you’re going to be punished,” Akira warned him.

“I deserve to be! I am scum, and will not lose sight of that!”

_This whole dinner was a mistake,_ Makoto realized. She felt as if she were watching something private, and had to force herself to keep watching. As uncomfortable as it was to realize that she and Akechi agreed on his worth (or lack thereof) it was even harder to watch her boyfriend interact with him. It was like he had forgotten she was sitting there, so intent was he on Akechi. The whole restaurant could go down in flames this very moment, and would he even look up to notice she was on fire?

Akira finally broke their intense connection by heaving a long sigh, and glancing towards their largely uneaten meals. “We’re going to have to do something you don’t like, and I won’t praise you at the end of it. Are you sure that’s what you want?”

_Praise him?_ While she understood the reasoning behind it—praise and punishment was how Shido had kept him in line for so long, after all—Makoto wondered what exactly that entailed. Akira was no power-mad politician, nor was he Akechi’s hated father. What was he doing to keep him in line, and what control could he ultimately hold over him?

It must be something effective, as Akechi quivered before jutting his chin upwards and admitting, “Do your worst. I deserve it.”

Akira hadn’t looked at her in more than five minutes now, and all of a sudden she felt an awful lot like crying. She had no idea what was going on here, but she knew she wasn’t a part of it. More so, it was something powerful and emotional, and made her brain flash back to the pain in Eiko’s expression when she had realized her host boyfriend was playing her for cash. That wasn’t at all what was happening here, but for some reason her brain was trying to establish a connection between the two events.

Was it the pain, rather than the situation? The inevitability of the dissolution of their relationship? Makoto did not want to know, nor did she want to examine it any more closely, afraid of what she might learn.

She stood abruptly, pushing herself back from the table. “I’m leaving,” she said, fumbling in her purse for some money. “I’ve got a busy day tomorrow, and I have to get something for Haru on the way home. I’ll um, I’ll call you later,” she said to Akira, as she counted out her share of the meal, refusing to look over at Akechi.

Before he could stand or even respond, she swooped in and kissed him on the lips. They were a firm, warm line against hers, and she pulled back before he could reciprocate.

“Have a good night,” she choked out, dropping the bills on the table and then spinning away before either man could see the tears collecting on her lashes. She strode away from them, blinking back those tears.

_Shit,_ she thought, unable to think of anything more complex than that through the doom resounding in her heart. _Shit, shit, shit._

…

…

...

In part to distract himself from Makoto’s obvious pain—and what would have to happen in the long run to alleviate that—Akira thought hard on the way home for a fitting punishment for Goro’s proclivity to think ill of himself. When Futaba accosted them on the backstreets of Yongen-Jaya, it was as if the perfect solution had fallen into his lap. Goro’s strength was returning in leaps and bounds, and even after their trip to Tokyo and back he was not physically flagging. Thus Akira had no qualms at all about enlisting Futaba’s aid in Goro rehabilitation.

“You’re going to give Futaba a piggy back ride around Yongen-Jaya,” he decided, and to his dying day he’d never forget Goro’s look of mortification, nor Futaba’s expression of unfettered glee.

“Giddy up, Goro-pony!” She commanded, and it was testament to Akira’s ability to get people to do exactly what he needed them to that within five minutes Goro was uncuffed and toting Futaba around on his back as she directed him through the backstreets of Yongen-Jaya. Akira and Morgana supervised, with the former more worried about Goro’s stamina, and the latter enjoying the spectacle, particularly when Futaba tried to get him to whinny when they were in front of the supermarket.

There was a lot of griping and swearing and bitten back insults on Akechi’s part, but not once did he drop Futaba. For that alone Akira was impressed, but what really got to him was that save for the sillier ones, he followed her directions. No whinnying or neighing for him, but he kept her from falling off more than once, and when he was still very weak from his convalescence. He even tried to move faster at her command once, after glancing back at Akira. He’d given him an encouraging smile, and he could have sworn that Goro had shuffled faster for three or four steps before wobbling.

“And that’s enough for today,” Akira said, stepping in and pulling Futaba off of Goro. “Someone needs a nap—”

“I need no such thing!” Goro panted, trembling from the exertion.

Futaba chimed in at the same moment, “I’m not even tired!”

“And his name is Morgana,” Akira finished smoothly. “Futaba, could you run ahead and tell Sojiro we’re ready for dinner?”

Futaba snapped off a salute. “Roger that, I’ll tell him we’re coming in hot!” She scampered off, and after a moment of consideration, Morgana chased after her.

“Don’t take it personally. He’s a little protective of her, even after all this time,” Akira noted to Goro as he slung the older boy’s arm over his own shoulders.

“I don’t need your help,” Goro huffed, stumbling until his weight was firmly pressed against Akira’s side. He doubted he’d be able to stand were it not for his awesome willpower, and Akira’s assistance.

“Let me help you, Goro,” Akira said quietly, Leblanc’s sign in view. “Unless it bothers you to have me touch you like this?”

Goro tripped over his tongue in trying to answer. “Tch—that . . .! Of course it does. If I were at full strength, I’d be the one carrying you!”

“I think I’d like that,” Akira told him honestly.

The ex-assassin gave him an odd look, like Akira was some sort of mathematical equation that broke all the rules of physics. But the door to Leblanc was before them, and when it cracked open the delicious scent of curry wafted out.

“C’mon, are you guys coming?” Futaba called, her red head poking out from behind the door. “It’s gonna get cold!”

“We’re coming,” Akira replied smilingly. “Lead the way to curry town, little sis.”

They hadn’t eaten much during their dinner with Makoto, and the exercise was enough to make Goro ravenous. He inhaled his food, and Akira ate only slightly more slowly. Futaba could out-eat grown men on most given days, so when Sojiro looked over at them and wondered aloud whether a famine had come through when he wasn’t paying attention, Akira was unembarrassed.

“Our compliments,” he winked at Sojiro as he herded Goro upstairs. Morgana, who had the night off of Goro-sitting duty, remained downstairs with Futaba and Sojiro, who were arguing over the practicality of teaching Morgana kanji (who protested that he already could read) and then on installing some sort of flour board where he could then communicate with Sojiro.

Akira thought it was ingenious, if a little strange. For now he was merely grateful that it allotted him some alone time with Goro. Not that Morgana couldn’t be there to oversee him, but there was something he wanted to do and it might be a bit . . . odd to be observed.

(Morgana would absolutely take it badly. That it probably _should_ be taken badly was something Akira was trying so very, very hard not to think about.)

Goro stumbled ahead of him, directly towards their shower caddy. They brought their own washing supplies when they bathed across the street, and he’d worked up a sweat carrying Futaba around.

“We’ll do that later,” he told Goro. “Go lay down on the bed.”

“Are we not bathing today?” He asked, and for good reason. They always bathed after dinner, and while Goro whined about how hot the water was (the one thing he had in common with Ryuji, as far as Akira could see) it was a big step up from the sponge baths from Goro’s first few days in Leblanc.

“We will,” Akira assured him. “Later. There’s something I have to do, first.”

Goro’s brows knit together in confusion. “I don’t understand. Is there something wrong with the bathhouse?”

Akira sighed, although it was more for show than anything else. “Goro, I’m giving you a clear command. Do you really want another punishment so soon?”

Goro’s mouth snapped shut. With one more suspicious look in his direction, he hobbled over to the bed before carefully settling himself down onto the bed, his hands clasped over his chest.

“Very good,” Akira said. “Now, roll over onto your stomach.”

There was less hesitation this time. He rolled over, keeping his head faced towards Akira, eyes narrowed in confusion. His body was tense, a hard line against the firm mattress.

Akira was absolutely going to do something about that. He breathed into hands, rubbing them together a little to ensure they were warm, and then straddled his ex-nemesis, making sure there was some space between their thighs.

“What are you—” Goro tried to roll over, but Akira held him down.

“Shhh, shh. Don’t worry. I’m just giving you a massage.”

“But—”

“Clothes will stay on unless you want ‘em off,” Akira drawled, not so much flirting as pushing Goro’s buttons. “But this is happening either way. You’re gonna’ be a stiff mess tomorrow if I don’t take care of you now. So just lay back and let me enjoy myself, ok?”

“Enjoy yourself? There’s nothing for you to enjoy,” Goro pointed out with his now-signature bitterness.

“You’d be surprised,” Akira rumbled, as he settled his hands on Goro’s shoulders. He’d prefer to start from the neck down, as Kawakami had done during all those massages she’d given him after he’d trawled through Palaces and Mementos, but he didn’t think he would take kindly to Akira’s hands on his neck from the get go. So he began just below, and steadily worked through the knotted muscles of Goro’s back, using the pressure, strokes, and overall technique he had learned from experience under Kawakami’s hands.

It took some time, but between directing Goro’s breathing—he had a tendency towards slow, shallow breaths, rather than the full ones needed for such a massage—and patient work, the muscles began to relax. Akira rose up by degrees until he was working through the strained muscles of his neck. Every pass of his hands brought on a frisson of illicit interest. It was so rare for Goro to touch or be touched. Before, he had barely done more than place a hand on someone’s shoulder, and that was the apex of what he’d allow.

Now he was laid out before Akira like a feast, and it was inappropriate how much he liked that. Part of it came from touching him because it was _him,_ and he hadn’t felt this attracted to someone since . . . well. To be honest, ever. Moreso, he enjoyed touching him because he could imagine there was some link between his physical and psychological state. If only he could iron out the kinks in his psyche the way he was currently doing to his trapezius!

Goro groaned at the dig of Akira’s thumbs against a particularly stubborn knot. “I thought you wouldn’t be nice to me,” he said drowsily.

Akira, who had stilled when he thought that groan denoted pain, smiled when he realized it did not, and continued his massage. “You already had your punishment. This is for being good with Futaba, and for thanking Sojiro for the curry. Plus you worked hard, and I really don’t want you sore tomorrow.”

Knowing that he had to make a full sweep of his back to be most effective, Akira worked his way down to Goro’s lower back. Barely had he begun before Goro let out a low, pleased hum. Akira repeated the motion, a slow drag of his fingers only an inch or so above the subtle curve of his rear, and Goro twitched against the mattress.

_I’m not pressing hard enough for it to be pain,_ Akira thought, more with his smaller head than his larger one. _That’s gotta be arousal. He likes this._

He learned the curve of Goro’s lower back with his fingertips, delighting in every bitten back grunt and twitch of his hips. “I want to give you a new challenge,” he said in a low, intimate voice.

The reply was delayed, and a bit weak. “Hmmm?”

His fingers strayed a little farther south, brushing against Goro’s belt. “Makoto is a high-level enemy,” he told him seriously. “We’ve surveyed the dungeon, and I think we’ll have to try again when you’ve leveled up a bit—”

“You’re spending too much time with Futaba,” Goro interrupted, his voice gravelly.

Akira merely smiled as he dug his thumbs in a little harder over a sensitive spot. Goro’s back arched and he moaned outright. Only when he lay still and pliant beneath him did Akira continue, “We’re going to try Ann and Ryuji next. If you can connect with them— _honestly_ connect with them—I’ll give you an even greater reward than I did with Futaba.”

There was a moment of silence. Then, “What would it be? The reward, I mean.”

“I want you to tell me,” Akira said as he let his hands drift to Goro’s obliques. This was the closest he’d go to anything improper, and it was only because these muscles needed attention too. Yes, that was it, entirely.

“I get to decide?” Goro asked, his voice sounding a little strangled.

“Yep. Nothing that hurts you or me or anyone else, however. It has to be a good thing. A nice thing. A pleasurable thing, if you want,” he finished, dragging his fingers back and forth above his hip bones.

_There’s a lot of tension, down here,_ Akira thought. _Please tell me it’s cuz he’s half as turned on as I am._ For he was turned on, even though he was doing an admirable job of ignoring it, in his opinion. He’d had to hunch at an odd angle almost this entire time because his cock was a hot brand against his inner thigh. He had to be careful: if Goro caught onto that and was _not_ feeling it the same way, then the game would be over and along with it the efforts of rehabilitation.

He could tease all he liked but when he came down to it he would never try anything against anyone’s will. That was what had sickened him most about Kamoshida, and he’d never forget the horror of the secret Shiho chamber in his palace, nor the shadow’s sense of entitlement. But if Goro wanted him back, even a little . . .

“And what if I don’t connect with them?” Goro asked, dragging Akira from his recollections.

“Another punishment. And no, you won’t like it as much as the one you just had. That was your first one, and I was pretty nice to you, don’t you think?”

Rather than reply, Goro squirmed into the mattress. It was a definite swivel of his hips, and it was also a move that Akira found familiar. There were times in every young man’s life where he found himself with an awkwardly-placed erection, and this was one of those times. Akira had to grit his teeth to keep from doing something inappropriate with his own. He was unsure whether it was his touch or the threat of punishment that turned Goro on. _Punishment was punishment, but boners were boners,_ he thought nonsensically. _How am I to argue with success?_

“Oh, was that too hard?” He asked, shooting for innocence and missing it by a quarter mile.

“No, no. It’s fine,” Goro said, a little too quickly and high-pitched to be natural.

“Because I can stop if you need me to . . .”

“N—I . . . It’s up to you.”

“Maybe just a little more,” Akira said, and centered his full attention on Goro’s sensitive lower back. He would do nothing more than massage him tonight, but goddamn, did he ever want Goro to ask for something sexual. But would he? Could Akira somehow engineer events so that the touch-starved and abused young man on the bed would allow him to give him outright pleasure?

As long as Goro asked _him,_ that wouldn’t make him like Kamoshida, right?

_Shit,_ Akira thought, unsure whether or not that was entirely the case. _I might just be a bad guy after all._

 


End file.
